There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.

Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.

Life... is a paradise to what we know of death.

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.