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.

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.

Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know'st thou art and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st.

Good reasons must of force give place to better.

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.