A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.
When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
Good old grandsire ... we shall be joyful of thy company.
Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
Let the end try the man.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.