How well he's read, to reason against reading!

Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.

His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.

Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!