I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

We have some salt of our youth in us.

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth

Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in, bear t that th' opposed may beware of thee.