Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.

The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.