By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next

Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.

I have a bone to pick with Fate

Give me mine angle, we'll to th' river: there, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws; and as I draw them up, I'll think them every one an Antony, And say, 'Ah, ha! are caught!'

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed.

Presume not that I am the thing I was.

The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue!