A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

When the mind's free, The Body's delicate.

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.

I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath; Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both.

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.

I am a feather for each wind that blows