Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight. Mercutio: And so did I. Romeo: Well, what was yours? Mercutio: That dreamers often lie. Romeo: In bed asleep while they do dream things true.

The weakest goes to the wall.

Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

Talkers are no good doers.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.