One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.
Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now, I do respect thee as my soul.
Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.