Conscience doth make cowards of us all.

for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.