Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate; And with my hand I seal my true heart's love

So quick bright things come to confusion.​​​​​​

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

I would not wish any companion in the world but you.

Every why hath a wherefore.

Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!