Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

I have supped full with horrors.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King.

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.