The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.
Parting is such sweet sorrow
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.