Life... is a paradise to what we know of death.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

...and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not?

When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man.