I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

What, can the devil speak true?

The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

Nimble thought can jump both sea and land.