At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.

The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.

Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.

Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.

The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law. - Romeo