Truth will come to sight; murder cannot be hid long.

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.

If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud you again.

Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come

Time is the king of men.

A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.