Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.

Every fair from fair sometime declines

No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

A very honest woman but something given to lie