Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.

I hope to see London once ere I die.

Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Haste is needful in a desperate case.