Wishers were ever fools.

We cannot conceive of matter being formed of nothing, since things require a seed to start from... Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.

Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.