Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.

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

There's place and means for every man alive.

Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.