But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue.

What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.

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

The very instant I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides To make me slave to it. ...mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give, and much less take What I shall die to want.

The king hath note of all that they intend, by interception which they dream not of.

There's daggers in men's smiles.