It is a good divine that follows his own instructions.

If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.

This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.

We cannot all be masters.