Conscience is a thousand swords.

Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

You taught me language, and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse

I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.