O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.

for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

Faint heart never won fair maid.

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.