These signs have marked me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men.
Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.
Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
What e'er thou art, act well thy part.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.