I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

We will draw the curtain and show you the picture.

The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

For she had eyes and chose me.

All that glitters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life has sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold Had you been as wise as bold, Your in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been in'scroll'd Fare you well: your suit is cold.' Cold, indeed, and labour lost: Then, farewell, heat and welcome, frost!

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.