More of your conversation would infect my brain.

Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.

O the world is but a word; were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!

What a deformed thief this fashion is.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!