True gladness doth not always speak; joy, bred and born but in the tongue, is weak.
Opinion is a light, vain, crude, and imperfect thing.
O! How vain and vile a passion is this fear! What base uncomely things it makes men do.
No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.
I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.
Our whole life is like a play.