As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.

If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.

You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care

There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.