The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.

I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting

Patch up thine old body for heaven.

Talkers are no good doers.

The past is prologue.