There is a history in all men’s lives.
There are many events in the womb of time, which will be delivered.
Then move not while my prayers’ effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.
The worst is not so long as we can say “This is the worst.”
The wheel is come full circle.
The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns.
The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks, they are all fire and every one doth shine; but there ‘s but one in all doth hold his place.
The sauce to meat is ceremony; meeting were bare without it.
The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation – that away, men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
The painting is almost the natural man: For since dishonour traffics with man’s nature, he is but outside; these pencill’d figures are even such as they give out.
