As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.

My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.

Make not your thoughts your prisons.

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.

Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.

Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds.