What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.

What is the city but the people?

My crown is in my heart, not on my head.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.

When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks.

So may the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceived with ornament.

To be, or not to be: that is the question.

By this reckoning he is more a shrew than she.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be.

Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.