This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.

Love is the greatest of dreams, yet the worst of nightmares.

What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.

Men should be what they seem; Or those that be not, would they might seem none!.

Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.

I am ill at these numbers.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence; the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature.