For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched in so many giddy offences as He hath generally taxed their whole their whole sex withal.

Things are often spoke and seldom meant.

When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.

For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'