Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Be merry; you have cause, so have we all, of joy; for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.

O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

You're in love? Out Out of love? I love someone. She doesn't love me.

Remembrance of things past.