A kiss, long as my exile, as sweet as my revenge.
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.
Mercutio: Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves.
Striving to better, oft we mar what's well.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.