Thou art the Mars of malcontents.

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!