Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit, And, in strong proff of chastity well armed, From Love's weak childish bow she lives uncharmed. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. O, she is rich in beauty; only poor That, when she dies, with dies her store. Act 1,Scene 1, lines 180-197

If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not

And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.

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

He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.