If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.

I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.