Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.

What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.

Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it; the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear.

The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.

Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.