It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.

No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

I hate the murderer, love him murdered.

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue