William Shakespeare

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

. . . the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.

Why, then the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.

I can no longer live by thinking.

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.

Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country, as the behavior of the country is most mockable at the court.

A friendly eye could never see such faults.

It is a heretic that makes the fire, Not she that burns in 't.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head; Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen: my crown is call'd content; A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.