I will praise any man that will praise me.

Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.

I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.