Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.

When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

The labor we delight in physics [cures] pain.