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Do You See Yonder Cloud That’s Almost In Shape Of A Camel? Polonius: By The Mass, And ‘tis Like A Camel, Indeed. Hamlet: Methinks It Is Like A Weasel. Polonius: It Is Backed Like A Weasel. Hamlet: Or Like A Whale? Polonius: Very Like A Whale.

-William Shakespeare

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Do You See Yonder

William Shakespeare

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Do You See Yonder Cloud That’s Almost In Shape Of A Camel? Polonius: By The Mass, And ‘tis Like A Camel, Indeed. Hamlet: Methinks It Is Like A Weasel. Polonius: It Is Backed Like A Weasel. Hamlet: Or Like A Whale? Polonius: Very Like A Whale.

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For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.

The Bashful Virgin's Sidelong Looks Of Love, The Matron's Glance That Would Those Looks Reprove.

Thus Have I, Wall, My Part Discharged So; And, Being Done, Thus Wall Away Doth Go.

What's To Come Is Still Unsure: In Delay There Lies No Plenty; Then Come Kiss Me, Sweet And Twenty, Youth's A Stuff Will Not Endure.

You Dull Ass Will Not Mend His Pace With Beating.

The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them; The Good Is Oft Interred With Their Bones.

Some Falls The Means Are Happier To Rise.

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water

If Is A Custom, More Honor'd In The Breach Than The Observance.

Thou Hast The Most Unsavoury Similes.

Bid Me Discourse, I Will Enchant Thine Ear

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.

Futility Of Life

Well, In That Hit You Miss. She'll Not Be Hit With Cupid's Arrow. She Hath Dian's Wit, And, In Strong Proff Of Chastity Well Armed, From Love's Weak Childish Bow She Lives Uncharmed. She Will Not Stay The Siege Of Loving Terms, Nor Bide Th' Encounter Of Assailing Eyes, Nor Ope Her Lap To Saint-seducing Gold. O, She Is Rich In Beauty; Only Poor That, When She Dies, With Dies Her Store. Act 1,scene 1, Lines 180-197

How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem By That Sweet Ornament Which Truth Doth Give!

We Must Love Men, Ere To Us They Will Seem Worthy Of Our Love.

I Was Born Free As Caesar; So Were You

Do As The Heavens Have Done, Forget Your Evil; With Them Forgive Yourself.

To Be, Or Not To Be, That Is The Question: Whether 'tis Nobler In The Mind To Suffer The Slings And Arrows Of Outrageous Fortune, Or To Take Arms Against A Sea Of Troubles, And By Opposing End Them: To Die, To Sleep No More; And By A Sleep, To Say We End The Heart-ache, And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To? 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished. To Die To Sleep, To Sleep, Perchance To Dream; Aye, There's The Rub.

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

Well, Heaven Forgive Him! And Forgive Us All! Some Rise By Sin, And Some By Virtue Fall: Some Run From Brakes Of Ice, And Answer None: And Some Condemned For A Fault Alone.

O! Let Me Not Be Mad, Not Mad, Sweet Heaven; Keep Me In Temper; I Would Not Be Mad!

My Age Is As A Lusty Winter, Frosty But Kindly.

All Things Are Ready, If Our Mind Be So.

Some Report A Sea-maid Spawn'd Him; Some That He Was Begot Between Two Stock-fishes. But It Is Certain That When He Makes Water His Urine Is Congealed Ice.

Winter's Not Gone Yet, If The Wild Geese Fly That Way.

The Dear Father Would With His Daughter Speak, Commands Her Service; Are They Inform'd Of This?

You Cannot Make Gross Sins Look Clear: To Revenge Is No Valour, But To Bear.

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!

A Loud Laugh Bespeaks A Vacant Mind!

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

Honor, Riches, Marriage-blessing Long Continuance, And Increasing, Hourly Joys Be Still Upon You!

A Nun Of Winter's Sisterhood Kisses Not More Religiously; The Very Ice Of Chastity Is In Them.

Macbeth To Witches: What Are These So Wither'd And So Wild In Their Attire, That Look Not Like Th' Inhabitants O' Th' Earth, And Yet Are On 't?

An Earnest Conjuration From The King, As England Was His Faithful Tributary, As Love Between Them Like The Palm Might Flourish, As Peace Should Still Her Wheaten Garland Wear And Stand A Comma 'tween Their Amities, And Many Such-like As's Of Great Charge, That, On The View And Knowing Of These Contents, Without Debatement Further, More Or Less, He Should The Bearers Put To Sudden Death, Not Shriving Time Allow'd.

By Heaven, My Soul Is Purg'd From Grudging Hate; And With My Hand I Seal My True Heart's Love

Before, I Loved Thee As A Brother, John, But Now, I Do Respect Thee As My Soul.

Plenty And Peace Breed Cowards; Hardness Ever Of Hardiness Is Mother.

Exit, Pursued By A Bear.

Men From Children Nothing Differ.

The Words Of Mercury Are Harsh After The Songs Of Apollo.

Iago: She That Was Ever Fair And Never Proud, Had Tongue At Will And Yet Was Never Loud, Never Lack'd Gold And Yet Went Never Gay, Fled From Her Wish And Yet Said 'now I May,' She That Being Anger'd, Her Revenge Being Nigh, Bade Her Wrong Stay And Her Displeasure Fly, She That In Wisdom Never Was So Frail To Change The Cod's Head For The Salmon's Tail; She That Could Think And Ne'er Disclose Her Mind, See Suitors Following And Not Look Behind, She Was A Wight, If Ever Such Wight Were,-- Desdemona: To Do What? Iago: To Suckle Fools And Chronicle Small Beer.

O, Teach Me How You Look, And With What Art You Sway The Motion Of Demetrius' Heart."-helena

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

For Some Must Watch, While Some Must Sleep So Runs The World Away

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

Were Beauty Under Twenty Locks Kept Fast, Yet Love Breaks Through And Picks Them All At Last.

In That Small [time] Most Greatly Lived This Star Of England: Fortune Made His Sword, By Which The World's Best Garden He Achiev'd And Left It To His Son Imperial Lord. Henry The Sixth, In Infant Bands Crown'd King Of France And England Did This King Succeed; Whose State So Many Of Had The Managing, That They Lost France And Made His England Bleed.

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

The Morning Steals Upon The Night, Melting The Darkness.

Most Dear Actors, Eat No Onions Nor Garlic, For We Are To Utter Sweet Breath.

Better Three Hours Too Soon Than A Minute Too Late.

Shine Out Fair Sun, Till I Have Bought A Glass, That I May See My Shadow As I Pass.

We Go To Gain A Little Patch Of Ground That Hath In It No Profit But The Name.

Can It Be That Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness? Having Waste Ground Enough, Shall We Desire To Raze The Sanctuary And Pitch Our Evils There?

This England Never Did, Nor Never Shall, Lie At The Proud Foot Of A Conqueror.

I Cannot But Remember Such Things Were That Were Most Precious To Me.

See, What A Ready Tongue Suspicion Hath! He That But Fears The Thing He Would Not Know, Hath, By Instinct, Knowledge From Others' Eyes, That What He Feared Is Chanced.

Therefore It Is Most Expedient For The Wise, If Don Worm (his Conscience) Find No Impediment To The Contrary, To Be The Trumpet Of His Own Virtues, As I Am To Myself.

Mercy But Murders, Pardoning Those That Kill.

Out Of This Nettle - Danger - We Pluck This Flower - Safety.

He Capers, He Dances, He Has Eyes Of Youth, He Writes Verses, He Speaks Holiday, He Smells April And May.

A Very Little Thief Of Occasion Will Rob You Of A Great Deal Of Patience.

Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.

The Bitter Clamor Of Two Eager Tongues.

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

That Which Ordinary Men Are Fit For, I Am Qualified In. And The Best Of Me Is Diligence.

Give Every Man Thy Ear, But Few Thy Voice.

For Who So Firm That Cannot Be Seduced?

If One Good Deed In All My Life I Did, I Do Repent It From My Very Soul.

Sweet Are The Uses Of Adversity Which, Like The Toad, Ugly And Venomous, Wears Yet A Precious Jewel In His Head.

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.

Adversity Makes Strange Bedfellows.

Strange Bedfellows

O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt Thaw And Resolve Itself Into A Dew! Or That The Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! God! How Weary, Stale, Flat And Unprofitable, (135) Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World! Fie On't! Ah Fie! 'tis An Unweeded Garden, That Grows To Seed; Things Rank And Gross In Nature Possess It Merely. That It Should Come To This! But Two Months Dead: Nay, Not So Much, Not Two: (140) So Excellent A King; That Was, To This.

Swift As Shadow, Short As Any Dream

God Is Our Fortress, In Whose Conquering Name Let Us Resolve To Scale Their Flinty Bulwarks.

I Dote On His Very Absence.

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.

Time Is The King Of Men.

Patch Grief With Proverbs.

What Time Hath Scanted Men In Hair, He Hath Given Them In Wit.

The Clock Upbraids Me With The Waste Of Time.

Full Of Wise Saws And Modern Instances.

I Must Be Gone And Live, Or Stay And Die.

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

Your Face Is A Book, Where Men May Read Strange Matters.

Thy Best Of Rest Is Sleep, And That Thou Oft Provok'st; Yet Grossly Fear'st Thy Death, Which Is No More.

Can It Be Chat Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness?

Now, My Masters, Happy Man Be His Dole, Say I; Every Man To His Business.

No Villainous Bounty Yet Hath Passed My Heart; Unwisely, Not Ignobly, Have I Given.

Now Let It Work. Mischief, Thou Art Afoot. Take Thou What Course Thou Wilt.

A Harmless Necessary Cat.

Day, Night, Late, Early, At Home, Abroad, Alone, In Company, Waking Or Sleeping, Still My Care Hath Been To Have Her Match'd; And Having Now Provided A Gentleman Of Princely Parentage, Of Fair Demesnes, Youthful, And Nobly Train'd, Stuff'd, As They Say, With Honourable Parts, Proportion'd As One's Thought Would Wish A Man- And Then To Have A Wretched Puling Fool, A Whining Mammet, In Her Fortune's Tender, To Answer 'i'll Not Wed, I Cannot Love; I Am Too Young, I Pray You Pardon Me'!

O, Let Him Pass. He Hates Him That Would Upon The Rack Of This Tough World Stretch Him Out Longer.

All Lovers Swear More Performance Than They Are Able, And Yet Reserve An Ability That They Never Perform; Vowing More Than The Perfection Of Ten, And Discharging Less Than The Tenth Part Of One.

O, Then I See Queen Mab Hath Been With You. . . . She Is The Fairies’ Midwife, And She Comes In Shape No Bigger Than An Agate Stone On The Forefinger Of An Alderman, Drawn With A Team Of Little Atomi Athwart Men’s Noses As They Lie Asleep.

Be As Just And Gracious Unto Me, As I Am Confident And Kind To Thee.

Ay Me! Sad Hours Seem Long.

If I Could Write The Beauty Of Your Eyes And In Fresh Numbers Number All Your Graces, The Age To Come Would Say, 'this Poet Lies; Such Heavenly Touches Ne'er Touch'd Earthly Faces.'

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.

What Made Me Love Thee? Let That Persuade Thee, There's Something Extraordinary In Thee

So Fair And Foul A Day I Had Not Seen.

The Most Peaceable Way For You, If You Do Take A Thief, Is, To Let Him Show Himself What He Is And Steal Out Of Your Company.

Let The End Try The Man.

O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To Brutish Beasts, And Men Have Lost Their Reason !

Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She; The Heaven Such Grace Did Lend Her, That She Might Admired Be.

Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair, Which Like Two Spirits Do Suggest Me Still: The Better Angel Is A Man Right Fair, The Worser Spirit A Woman Coloured Ill.

She Cannot Love, Nor Take No Shape Nor Project Or Affection, She Is So Self-endeared

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

Live In Thy Shame, But Die Not Shame With Thee!

But Say, My Lord, It Were Not Regist'red, Methinks The Truth Should Live From Age To Age, As 'twere Retailed To All Posterity, Even To The General All-ending Day.

Experience Is By Industry Achieved, And Perfected By The Swift Course Of Time.

A Man I Am Cross'd With Adversity.

Sit By My Side, And Let The World Slip: We Shall Ne'er Be Younger.

Nature Hath Framed Strange Fellows In Her Time.

Beware Of Entrance To A Quarrel; But Being In, Bear't That The Opposed May Beware Of Thee. Give Every Man Thy Ear, But Few Thy Voice; Take Each Man's Censure, But Reserve Thy Judgment. Costly Thy Habit As Thy Purse Can Buy, But Not Express'd In Fancy; Rich, Not Gaudy; For The Apparel Oft Proclaims The Man.

I Thank You All And Here Dismiss You All, And To The Love And Favor Of My Country Commit Myself, My Person, And The Cause.

Two Women Placed Together Makes Cold Weather.

Nor Aught So Good But Strained From That Fair Use, Revolts From True Birth Stumbling On Abuse.

It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury; Signifying Nothing.

Thou Seest We Are Not All Alone Unhappy: This Wide And Universal Theatre Presents More Woeful Pageants Than The Scene Wherein We Play In.

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.

What's Gone, And What's Past Help, Should Be Past Grief.

O Helena, Goddess, Nymph, Perfect, Divine! To What, My Love, Shall I Compare Thine Eyne? Crystal Is Muddy. O, How Ripe In Show Thy Lips, Those Kissing Cherries, Tempting Grow!

Whether 'tis Nobler In The Mind To Suffer The Slings And Arrows Of Outrageous Fortune, Or To Take Arms Against A Sea Of Troubles, And By Opposing End Them?

We Make Ourselves Fools To Disport Ourselves And Spend Our Flatteries To Drink Those Men Upon Whose Age We Void It Up Again With Poisonous Spite And Envy.

Ask Me No Reason Why I Love You; For Though Love Use Reason For His Physician, He Admits Him Not For His Counsellor.

Well, Every One Can Master A Grief But He That Has It.

He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf.

I'll Be Damned For Never A King's Son In Christendom.

Thou Art All The Comfort, The Gods Will Diet Me With.

How Well He's Read, To Reason Against Reading!

Alas, Poor Yorick! I Knew Him, Horatio: A Fellow Of Infinite Jest, Of Most Excellent Fancy: He Hath Borne Me On His Back A Thousand Times; And Now, How Abhorred In My Imagination It Is! My Gorge Rims At It. Here Hung Those Lips That I Have Kissed I Know Not How Oft. Where Be Your Gibes Now? Your Gambols? Your Songs? Your Flashes Of Merriment, That Were Wont To Set The Table On A Roar? Not One Now, To Mock Your Own Grinning? Quite Chap-fallen?

The Thorny Point Of Bare Distress Hath Ta'en From Me The Show Of Smooth Civility; Yet Am I Inland Bred And Know Some Nurture.

...lest Too Light Winning Make The Prize Light.

Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May.

'twas Merry When You Wagered On Your Angling, When Your Diver Did Hang A Salt Fish On His Hook, Which He With Fervency Drew Up.

Don Pedro Come, Lady, Come; You Have Lost The Heart Of Signior Benedick. Beatrice Indeed, My Lord, He Lent It Me Awhile; And I Gave Him Use For It, A Double Heart For His Single One: Marry, Once Before He Won It Of Me With False Dice, Therefore Your Grace May Well Say I Have Lost It. Don Pedro You Have Put Him Down, Lady, You Have Put Him Down. Beatrice So I Would Not He Should Do Me, My Lord, Lest I Should Prove The Mother Of Fools.

Some Grief Shows Much Of Love, But Much Of Grief Shows Still Some Want Of Wit.

Exceeds Man's Might: That Dwells With The Gods Above.

Come, Seeling Night, Scarf Up The Tender Eye Of Pitiful Day, And With Thy Bloody And Invisible Hand Cancel And Tear To Pieces That Great Bond Which Keeps Me Pale. Light Thickens, And The Crow Makes Wing To Th' Rooky Wood. Good Things Of Day Begin To Droop And Drowse, While Night's Black Agents To Their Prey Do Rouse.

This Feather Stirs; She Lives! If It Be So, It Is A Chance Which Does Redeem All Sorrows That Ever I Have Felt.

And Simple Truth Miscalled Simplicity

O God, I Could Be Bound In A Nutshell, And Count Myself A King Of Infinite Space – Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams.

Ambition Should Be Made Of Sterner Stuff.

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.

Such Thanks As Fits A King's Remembrance.

A Little More Than Kin, And Less Than Kind.

What Must Be Shall Be.

Thou Call'st Me Dog Before Thou Hadst A Cause, But Since I Am A Dog, Beware My Fangs.

And In The Morn And Liquid Dew Of Youth, Contagious Blastments Are Are Most Imminent.

Give Me To Drink Mandragora.

'sblood, You Starveling, You Elf-skin, You Dried Neat's Tongue, You Bull's Pizzle, You Stock-fish! O For Breath To Utter What Is Like Thee! You Tailor's-yard, You Sheath, You Bowcase; You Vile Standing-tuck!

Take Heed, Dear Heart, Of This Large Privilege; The Hardest Knife Ill-used Doth Lose His Edge.

I Will Praise Any Man That Will Praise Me.

For My Grief's So Great That No Supporter But The Huge Firm Earth Can Hold It Up: Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It. (constance, From King John, Act Iii, Scene 1)

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

I Am Not Bound To Please Thee With My Answer.

I Stand For Judgment: Answer: Shall I Have It?

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.

Foul Whisperings Are Abroad

The Art Of Our Necessities Is Strange That Can Make Vile Things Precious.

If It Will Feed Nothing Else, It Will Feed My Revenge.

The Curse Of Marriage That We Can Call These Delicate Creatures Ours And Not Their Appetites!

That Skull Had A Tongue In It, And Could Sing Once: How The Knave Jowls It To The Ground, As If It Were Cain's Jaw-bone, That Did The First Murder! It Might Be The Pate Of A Politician, Which This Ass Now O'er-reaches; One That Would Circumvent God, Might It Not?

Thrice Is He Arm'd That Hath His Quarrel Just, And He But Naked, Though Lock'd Up In Steel, Whose Conscience With Injustice Is Corrupted.

He That Is Truly Dedicated To War Hath No Self-love

Gloucester: Yet So Much Is My Poverty Of Spirit, So Mighty And So Many My Defects, As I Had Rather Hide Me From My Greatness, Being A Bark To Brook No Mighty Sea, Than In My Greatness Covet To Be Hid, And In The Vapour Of My Glory Smother'd. But God Be Thanked. . . .

After Life's Fitful Fever He Sleeps Well. Treason Has Done His Worst. Nor Steel Nor Poison, Malice Domestic, Foreign Levy, Nothing Can Touch Him Further.

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.

Dissembling Harlot, Thou Art False In All!

Good Name In Man And Woman, Dear My Lord, Is The Immediate Jewel Of Their Souls: Who Steals My Purse Steals Trash; ’tis Something, Nothing; ’twas Mine, ’tis His, And Has Been Slave To Thousands; But He That Filches From Me My Good Name Robs Me Of That Which Not Enriches Him, And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.

For Thy Sweet Love Remember'd Such Wealth Brings That Then I Scorn To Change My State With Kings.

The Common Curse Of Mankind, Folly And Ignorance, Be Thine In Great Revenue!

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

These Earthly Godfathers Of Heaven's Lights, That Give A Name To Every Fixed Star, Have No More Profit Of Their Shining Nights Than Those That Walk And Know Not What They Are.

You Draw Me, You Hard-hearted Adamant; But Yet You Draw Not Iron, For My Heart Is True As Steel: Leave You Your Power To Draw, And I Shall Have No Power To Follow You.

Though I Am Not Naturally Honest, I Am Sometimes So By Chance.

So Our Virtues Lie In The Interpretation Of The Time

A Heavy Heart Bears Not A Nimble Tongue.

I Myself Am Best When Least In Company.

Hast Any Philosophy In Thee Shepherd? .• • • • . . . He That Wants Money, Means And Content, Is Without Three Good Friends; That The Property Of Rain Is To Wet And Fire To Burn; That Good Pasture Makes Fat Sheep, And A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun; That He That Hath Learned No Wit By Nature Nor Art May Complain Of Good Breeding Or Comes Of A Very Dull Kindred.

Nothing Comes From Doing Nothing.

Thou Slave, Thou Wretch, Thou Coward! Thou Little Valiant, Great In Villainy! Thou Ever Strong Upon The Stronger Side! Thou Fortune's Champion, That Dost Never Fight But Where Her Humorous Ladyship Is By To Teach Thee Safety.

I Had Rather Live With Cheese And Garlic In A Windmill.

Give It An Understanding, But No Tongue.

I Thank God I Am As Honest As Any Man Living That Is An Old Man And No Honester Than I.

Let Not The World See Fear And Sad Distrust Govern The Motion Of A Kingly Eye.

For In The Fatness Of These Pursy Times Virtue Itself Of Vice Must Pardon Beg.

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineer Hoist With His Own Petar; And't Shall Go Hard But I Will Delve One Yard Below Their Mines And Blow Them At The Moon.

In Peace There's Nothing So Becomes A Man As Modest Stillness And Humility.

For Brutus, As You Know, Was Caesar's Angel: Judge, O You Gods, How Dearly Caesar Loved Him! This Was The Most Unkindest Cut Of All

'tis Thought The King Is Dead; We Will Not Stay. The Bay Trees In Our Country Are All Wither'd.

O, Thou Hast Damnable Iteration; And Art, Indeed, Able To Corrupt A Saint.

But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade.

But When I Came, Alas, To Wive, With Hey, Ho, The Wind And The Rain, By Swaggering Could I Never Thrive, For The Rain It Raineth Every Day.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

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