Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.

The soul of this man is his clothes.

Lawless are they that make their wills their law.

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.