A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!