William Shakespeare

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

MERCUTIO

If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

Things base and vile, folding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity:
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind:

gracious light

Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

Your self to pardon of self-doing crime.

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,

not a grange.
RODERIGO
Most grave Brabantio,
In simple and pure soul I come to you.
IAGO
'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not
serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to
do you service and you think we are ruffians, you'll
have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse;
you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have
coursers for cousins and gennets for germans.
BRABANTIO
What profane wretch art thou?
IAGO
I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter
and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.
BRABANTIO
Thou art a villain.
IAGO

Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack:
If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever