Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

Our jovial star reigned at his birth.

I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.