She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.

He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. He that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.

There's place and means for every man alive.

Past all shame, so past all truth.