What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes — William Shakespeare
The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that’s curded by the frost from purest snow. — William Shakespeare
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. — William Shakespeare
So many miseries have craz’d my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. — William Shakespeare
Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affection, Figures pedantical–these summer — William Shakespeare
He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. — William Shakespeare
An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England. — William Shakespeare
Take her away; for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities. — William Shakespeare