Truth hath a quiet breast.

We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.

Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.