Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?

Bassanio: Do all men kill all the things they do not love? Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Bassanio: Every offence is not a hate at first.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams!

Cursed be he that moves my bones.

That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.