When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

If I for my opinion bleed, opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, and keep me on the side where still I am.

World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple Hell?

Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.

Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.