A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. [Act 5, Scene 2]
There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.
I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust: to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.