“The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord!O, wither'd is the garland of the war,The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girlsAre level now with men; the odds is gone,And there is nothing left remarkableBeneath the visiting moon.”

“O my good lord, the world is but a word: Were it all yours to give it in a breath, How quickly were it gone!”

“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mockThe meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss,Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger:But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o'erWho dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!”

“O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.- Romeo -”

“What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.”

“O that I were a mockery king of snowStanding before the sun of BolingbrokeTo melt myself away in water drops!”

“O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon,That monthly changes in her circle orb,Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”