Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head; not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

A very honest woman but something given to lie

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won