What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
To be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.
The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.