Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.

I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks

Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man

If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.