Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
The object of Art is to give life a shape.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head.
Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.