Ay, is it not a language I speak?

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.

Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.

Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice, He offers in another's enterprise; But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be, Yet hold I off.

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.