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

The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.

Making night hideous.

The instruments of darkness tell us truths.

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

Oh what fools we mortals are.

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.