The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.

Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O, it is my love! Oh, that she knew she were!

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.