For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

Lawn as white as driven snow; Cyprus black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses.

There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am

Pardon's the word to all.

Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.