Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger.

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but in's own house.

Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.

There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently

Love's stories written in love's richest books. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.