Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!