Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?

Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.

It is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so.