O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Now, God be praised: that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!
Now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide.
Nothing can come of nothing.
Never came reformation in a flood.
Necessity’s sharp pinch!
My more-having would be as a sauce to make me hunger more.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.
Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes.
Master, go on and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
Make the doors upon a woman’s wit and it will out at the casement. Shut that and ’twill out at the keyhole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.