Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.

I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man

What is the city but the people?