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?

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.

Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.

Self-love is the most inhibited sin in the canon.

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.