And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.