O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.
The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.
Security is the chief enemy of mortals.
Love is a wonderful, terrible thing
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.