What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tyring houses be, Where we are drest for this short Comedy.

There is nothing exempt from the peril of mutation; the earth, heavens, and whole world is thereunto subject.

Covetous ambition, thinking all too little which presently it hath, supposeth itself to stand in need of that which it hath not.

The most divine light only shineth on those minds which are purged from all worldly dross and human uncleanliness.

Hath triumphed over time, which besides it nothing but eternity hath triumphed over.

No man is esteemed for colorful garments except by fools and women.

Because all men are apt to flatter themselves, to entertain the addition of other men's praises is most perilous.