My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.
I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.
Tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons.