The golden age is before us, not behind us.

And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company.

No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.

Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.