...lest too light winning make the prize light.

There is a devilish mercy in the judge, if you'll implore it, that will free your life, but fetter you till death.

There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.

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

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.