The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

I must be cruel only to be kind;
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

Words, words, words.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.

Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

This above all: to thine own self be true.

Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.