For I can raise no money by vile means.
Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile
Your worm is your only emperor for diet; we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.
The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.