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?

The weakest goes to the wall.

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

Heaven - the treasury of everlasting life.

A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.