Do all men kill the things they do not love ............ The quality of mercy is not strain'd It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest It blesseth him that gives and him that takes
We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
You are strangely troublesome.
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)