Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
All the world is a stage and we are merely players.
All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.
Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.
Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror