The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

O Sir, You Are Old; Nature In You Stands On The Very Verge Of Her Confine; You Should Be Ruled And Led By Some Discretion, That Discerns Your Fate Better Than You Yourself.

I Would Give All Of My Fame For A Pot Of Ale And Safety.

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come. And Let My Liver Rather Heat With Wine, Than My Heart Cool With Mortifying Groans.

Do All Men Kill The Things They Do Not Love?