Men at some time are masters of their fates.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.