We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.
Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.
When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.