Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.

Love is too young to know what conscience is.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.

Men's vows are women's traitors

I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.

Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.