How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!

Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

All the world's a stage ... and you better have a zoning variance or it's coming down.

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

There's daggers in men's smiles.