Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.

If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.

My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

A fusty nut with no kernel.

Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks

There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.