Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.

Man and wife, being two, are one in love.

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Grief makes one hour ten.

O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!

My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.