The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.

If there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up; So quick bright things come to confusion.

Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is! (Act 1, scene 1)

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.