What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed-Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!

My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was

In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.

Love all. Trust a few. Do wrong to none. This above all: to thine own self be true. No legacy is so rich as honesty. Brevity is the soul of wit

You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.