It comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.

Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.

You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.

A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.

How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.