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

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe