We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Now is the winter of our discontent.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.

All that glisters is not gold.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.