Patch up thine old body for heaven.

Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.

By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.

A young man married is a man that's marred.

This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.