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

For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.

What light through yonder window breaks?

Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.

He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.

I have a bone to pick with Fate