Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.
Such as we are made of, such we be.
Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.
The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.