There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.

Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling.

I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!