As chaste as unsunned snow.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight. Mercutio: And so did I. Romeo: Well, what was yours? Mercutio: That dreamers often lie. Romeo: In bed asleep while they do dream things true.

They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.

Ingratitude is monstrous.