Avaunt, you cullions!

Love does not see with the eyes, but with the soul.

By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust ensuing danger; as, by proof, we see the waters swell before a boisterous storm.

Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.