For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

What is the city but the people?

My pride fell with my fortunes.

The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd

The rain, it raineth every day.

You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live