How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?

We cannot conceive of matter being formed of nothing, since things require a seed to start from... Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.

The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.

Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.

Who can be patient in extremes?