All the world is a stage and we are merely players.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.
I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.
I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.
He that dies this year is quit for the next.
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.