Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.

I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valor.

What is more miserable than discontent?

... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.

Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

There is nothing serious in Mortality