Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower where the pleasant fountains lie.

Thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends, stolen forth of holy writ, and seem a saint when most I play the devil.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility; but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favor'd rage.

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.

They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up half of my wealth.

O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!