She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The jury passing on the prisoner's life may in the sworn twelve have a thief or two guiltier than him they try.

Women being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the walls.

Self-love is the most inhibited sin in the canon.