I see a man's life is a tedious one.

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.

But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.

O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil!

Report me and my cause aright.

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.

I hate the murderer, love him murdered.