He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. . . . He was naturally learn'd; he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. . . . He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating in to clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some occasion is presented to him.

Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise!

The bravest men are subject most to chance.

For all have not the gift of martyrdom.

For my part, I can compare her (a gossip) to nothing but the sun; for, like him, she knows no rest, nor ever sets in one place but to rise in another.

My love's a noble madness.