For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.