I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try.

Barnes are blessings.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

They that touch pitch will be defiled.