Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.

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!

But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.

I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.

My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.

Words to deeds cold breath gives.