Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

Timon: I'll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.

Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!

Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.

Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing.