The king is but a man, as I am; the violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions; his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

Now is the winter of our discontent.

Fortune reigns in gifts of the world.

He was not so much brain as earwax

Put money in thy purse.

Death is a fearful thing.