If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.

A man can die but once.

Let no such man be trusted.

Tis the mind that makes the body rich.

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.

O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)

Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.