Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere

Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

Pride went before, ambition follows him.

My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.

Courage mounteth with occasion.