Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

We must follow, not force Providence.

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

I say, without characters, fame lives long.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

So our virtues lie in the interpretation of the time