Ambition, madam, is a great man's madness.

Eagles commonly fly alone. They are crows, daws, and starlings that flock together.

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.

In all our quest of greatness, like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, we follow after bubbles, blown in the air.

Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.

Do you not weep? Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out. The element of water moistens the earth, But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.

The misery of us, that are born great, We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.