Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.
By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next
It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.
Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.
So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.