A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

How is it possible to have a civil war?

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.

Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant dust?

Mercutio: "If love be rough with you, be rough with love;