Poets are far rarer birds than kings.

I perceive affection makes a fool Of any man too much the father.

Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.

Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.

A new disease? I know not, new or old, but it may well be called poor mortals plague for, like a pestilence, it doth infect the houses of the brain till not a thought, or motion, in the mind, be free from the black poison of suspect.

Words borrowed of Antiquity do lend a kind of Majesty to style, and are not without their delight sometimes. For they have the authority of years, and out of their intermission do win to themselves a kind of grace-like newness. But the eldest of the present, and newest of the past Language, is the best.

Our whole life is like a play.