O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

He that dies this year is quit for the next.

Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none. Beatrice: A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. -Much Ado About Nothing

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

Good counselors lack no clients.