Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Kindness nobler ever than revenge.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?

Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit.

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.