What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

Base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

The jury passing on the prisoner's life may in the sworn twelve have a thief or two guiltier than him they try.

And I will make it felony to drink small beer.