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.

His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.

In the modesty of fearful duty, I read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence.

This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.