There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.

That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

Don't waste your love on somebody, who doesn't value it.

How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.