William Shakespeare

Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude.

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.

If music be the food of love, play on.

Be true to yourself, and you cannot be a liar to others.

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.