The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.

Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.