All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.

Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?

In right and service to their noble country.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

Grief makes one hour ten.