Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

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?

Olivia: What's a drunken man like, fool? Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.

And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?