When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.
But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.
Sweet are the uses of adversity
He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.
Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
He knows what it's like to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then be heard no more.