'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.

Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.

By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

Sometimes, less is more.

Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.