All Hoods Make Not Monks.

If It Be You That Stirs These Daughters' Hearts Against Their Father, Fool Me Not So Much To Bear It Tamely; Touch Me With Noble Anger, And Let Not Women's Weapons, Water Drops, Stain My Man's Cheeks.

It Is The Stars, The Stars Above Us, Govern Our Conditions.

Sir Andrew Ague-cheek: I'll Stay A Month Longer. I Am A Fellow O' The Strangest Mind I' The World; I Delight In Masques And Revels Sometimes Altogether (he's An Oddity In That He Enjoys Having Fun)

This Cold Night Will Turn Us All To Fools And Madmen.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.