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?

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.

I have a bone to pick with Fate

And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.