Dead we become the lumber of the world.

Born to myself, I like myself alone.

Tis a meaner part of sense to find a fault than taste an excellence.

God bless our good and gracious King, Whose promise none relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.

The theatre is my drug. And my illness is so far advanced that my physic must be of the highest quality.

Now piercèd is her virgin zone; She feels the foe within it. She hears a broken amorous groan, The panting lover's fainting moan, Just in the happy minute.

Custom does often reason overrule.