Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.

O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.