For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, "Thus diddest thou;"

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

A good wit will make use of anything.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.