Every why hath a wherefore.

But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.

Merciful heaven, Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured His glassy essence--like an angry ape Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens, would all themselves laugh mortal.

He that dies this year is quit for the next.

So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!

You shall more command with years than with your weapons.

Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.