To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.

Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defy the foul fiend.

If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.