We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.

You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.

The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.

I do beseech you- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess , that your wisdom yet From one that so imperfectly conjects Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance.

I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.