For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered; for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.

There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.

A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!

As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.

He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.