The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

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

When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.

For what I will, I will, and there an end.

Dreams are the children of idled minds.