I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.

Take pains. Be perfect.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.

Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable