You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.
A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!
To be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.
Jesters do oft prove prophets.