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

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.

The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.

What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.