We are such stuff that dreams are made of.

Tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburdened crawl toward death.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry

Let no such man be trusted.

Pain pays the income of each precious thing.

Where is your ancient courage? You were used to say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike showed mastership in floating.

Nothing can come of nothing.