Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.
A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.