For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage.
Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.