I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numbering clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial's point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous goans, which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours.

While he was drunk asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed.

Literature is a comprehensive essence of the intellectual life of a nation.

An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not.

An overflow of good converts to bad.

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.

And simple truth miscalled simplicity