Heaven fashioned us of nothing; and we strive to bring ourselves to nothing.
The misery of us, that are born great, We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.
Are you grown an atheist? Will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the curse' d devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice-candied o'er.
Ambition, madam, is a great man's madness.
Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.
Imyself haveheard averygood jest, and havescornedto seem to have so sillya wit as to understand it.