He that dies this year is quit for the next.
[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
Give me to drink mandragora.