He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.

You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.

I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.