O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.

We are oft to blame in this, - 'tis too much proved, - that with devotion's visage, and pios action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

He knows what it's like to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then be heard no more.