Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.