I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.

When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

A cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in 't.

Make not your thoughts your prisons.

I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath; Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!