God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.

Talkers are no good doers.

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

We cannot all be masters.

I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.