For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.
Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.
If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.
Security is the chief enemy of mortals.