Is it not strange that sheep’s guts could hail souls out of men’s bodies?
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
Tis within ourselves that we are thus or thus.
I say there is no darkness but ignorance.
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.
They do not love, that do not show their love.
If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
The small amount of foolery wise men have makes a great show.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t.
I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?
And to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
You are thought here to the most senseless and fit man for the job.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtues fall.
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.