I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing; ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.

He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.

He knows what it's like to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then be heard no more.

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief