William Shakespeare

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

MERCUTIO

If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

You kiss by the book.

move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand:

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,

Love said to be a child,
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.

Things base and vile, folding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity:
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind:

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind

gracious light

Lifts up his burning head, each under eye