Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.

Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.

Thou lump of foul deformity!

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

He must needs go that the devil drives.

But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them." Viola: "Thy reason, man?" Feste: "Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.

By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate; And with my hand I seal my true heart's love