Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty

Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?

In a false quarrel there is no true valor.

Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.

A gentleman that loves to hear himself talk, will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; so full of valor that they smote the air, for breathing in their faces, beat the ground for kissing of their feet.