O, but they say, the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony: where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain: for they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. he, that no more must say, is listened more than they whom youth and ease have taught to gloze; more are men's ends marked, than their lives before: the setting sun, and music at the close, as the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; writ in rememberance more than things long past

...Vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

If people knew how much I hated them, they'd love me for holding it in.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate

Avaunt, you cullions!

But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise

Your praises will become your wages.