All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.

The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

Greatness knows itself.

Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.