Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

Do all men kill the things they do not love ............ The quality of mercy is not strain'd It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest It blesseth him that gives and him that takes

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.

My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.

Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn

For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.