To Thine Own Self Be True, And

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief? O Sweet My Mother, Cast Me Not Away! Delay This Marriage For A Month, A Week, Or If You Do Not, Make The Bridal Bed In That Dim Monument Where Tybalt Lies.

A Sentence Is But A Cheveril Glove To A Good Wit; How Quickly The Wrong Side May Be Turned Outward!

Love Adds A Precious Seeing To The Eye.

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.

I Have Lov'd Her Ever Since I Saw Her; And Still I See Her Beautiful