Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'd And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.

I do know when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.

Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.

The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.