To business that we love we rise betime, and go to't with delight.

Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.

Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.