I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.

If there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another: I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt.

These times of woe afford no time to woo.

Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale.