Grief makes one hour ten.
Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75
There is a tide in the affairs of men
O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.