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

My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was

Love goes toward love.

Sometimes, less is more.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.