Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.

As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark...so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.

What e'er thou art, act well thy part.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.