Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.

Policy sits above conscience.

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next

O, had I but followed the arts!