Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
Gold were as good as twenty orators.
His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.