The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

This is the short and the long of it.

Good wombs have borne bad sons." -- (Miranda, I:2)

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.

The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd

What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.