He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

All of Creation’s a farce. Man was born as a joke. In his head his reason is buffeted Like wind-blown smoke. Life is a game. Everyone ridicules everyone else. But he who has the last laugh Laughs longest.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.