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.

This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.

Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?

Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.