Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.

In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.

Literature is a comprehensive essence of the intellectual life of a nation.

You have witchcraft in your lips

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

He that dies this year is quit for the next.