To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you

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

That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties