Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

For you and I are past our dancing days.

He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed