Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?

what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes