“Our whole life is like a play.”

What excellent fools religion makes of men.

Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!

Popular men, They must create strange monsters, and then quell them, To make their arts seem something.

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I’ll not look for wine.

Good men but see death, the wicked taste it.

Now we are all fallen, youth from their fear, And age from that which bred it, good example.

All discourses but my own afflict me; they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome

A good man should and must Sit rather down with loss than rise unjust.

Woman, the more careful she is about her face, the more careless about her house.

For they have the authority of years, and out of their intermission do win to themselves a kind of grace-like newness. But the eldest of the present, and newest of the past Language, is the best.

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast, Still to be powder’d, all perfum’d. Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Sweet Swan of Avon! What a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear.

As it is a great point of art, when our matter requires it, to enlarge and veer out all sail, so to take it in and contract it is of no less praise when the argument doth ask it.

Spread yourself upon his bosom publicly, whose heart you would eat in private.

Prevent your day at morning.

Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.