Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.

I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.

The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.

Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation