But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.

Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.

Th abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.

Adversity makes strange bedfellows.

Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.

Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.