In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.
Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.
Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.
I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.