Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.