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

Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest.

Highly fed and lowly taught.

O the world is but a word; were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!

Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.

These times of woe afford no time to woo.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.