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.

Women being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the walls.

Till all grace be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.

Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.

What e'er thou art, act well thy part.

The past is prologue.

The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants.