Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit.

The apparel oft proclaims the man.

For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.