They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.

When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

The play's the thing.

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

This thought is as a death.