I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.

O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

Sweets to the sweet.

So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.

Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.

I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.