O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple Hell?

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.

I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good.

Swift as shadow, short as any dream