How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them.