O, that our fathers would applause our loves, To seal our happiness with hteir consents!
All the world's a stage.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
Nothing comes from doing nothing.
A beggar's book outworths a noble's blood.
So fair and foul a day i had not seen.