Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.

O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!

Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.

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

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

The soul of this man is his clothes.