He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.

He kills her in her own humor.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.