... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.

You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes; still am I King of those.

A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.