I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.

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

Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.

The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75

Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.