It is a madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because in herself she is nothing, can rule nothing, but is ruled by prudence.
Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.
Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.
Thou strong seducer, Opportunity!
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.