To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.

If there is a good will, there is great way.

Murder most foul, as in the best it it; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!

From this day forward until the end of the world...we in it shall be remembered...we band of brothers.

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions

They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.