I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.

I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

Muster your wits; stand in your own defence.

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.