You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.

Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.

The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

What can be happier than for a man, conscious of virtuous acts, and content with liberty, to despise all human affairs?

The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.

Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.

Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight.