For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.

O war! thou son of Hell!

Come, swear it, damn thyself, lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves should fear to seize thee; therefore be double-damned, swear,--thou art honest.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.