William Shakespeare

Each new mornNew widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrowsStrike heaven on the face, that it resoundsAs if it felt with Scotland, and yelled outLike syllable of dolor.

LEONATOWell, then, go you into hell?BEATRICENo, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here's no place for you maids:' so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long.

When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew

All dark and comfortless.

Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy and say 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say 'Father, as it please me.

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

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.

He__ mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse__ health, a boy__ love, or a whore__ oath.

But hear thee, Gratiano:Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice - Parts that become thee happily enough,And in such eyes as ours appear no faults,But where thou art not known, why, there they show Something too liberal.

Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Mark it, nuncle.Have more than thou showest,Speak less than thou knowest,Lend less than thou owest,Ride more than thou goest,Learn more than thou trowest,Set less than thou throwest,Leave thy drink and thy whoreAnd keep in-a-door,And thou shalt have moreThan two tens to a score.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

love is blindand lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit

Thou art a votary to fond desire

There's a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it.What our contempts doth often hurl from us,We wish it ours again. The present pleasure,By revolution lowering, does becomeThe opposite of itself. She's good, being gone.The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.