Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.

How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth

You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.