Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

There's many a man hath more hair than wit.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

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.

Lovers ever run before the clock

Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.