There is a history in all men's lives.

The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.

Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.

There's small choice in rotten apples.

O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.