Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.
I will make a Star-chamber matter of it.
Good things should be praised.