I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.

Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.

The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!

And ruin`d love when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater