The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.

Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.

Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.