The fewer men, the greater share of honor.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties

Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!

Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.

Lawless are they that make their wills their law.

It is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.