O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed

God grant us patience!

Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.

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