Now is the winter of our discontent

That deep torture may be called a hell, When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator.

What cannot be eschewed must be embraced

Time's glory is to calm contending kings, To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments.

On a day — alack the day! — Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air