If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

Passion lends them power, time means to meet, tempering extremities with extremes sweet.

I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me

Death is a fearful thing.

Wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes, but presently prevent the ways to wail.

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

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.