You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.

Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?

Within the book and volume of thy brain.

Sometimes when we are labeled, when we are branded our brand becomes our calling.

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

There is nothing serious in Mortality