O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

Milk-livered man!

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!

The world without God would be a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing...

Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.