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When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again.

Bosom upon my counsel, You'll find it wholesome.

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.

Henceforth, I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself, 'Enough, enough, and die.'

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald me like molten lead.

Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

You are an alchemist, make gold of that.

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence.

Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes? No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather. He made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that.

See where she comes, apparelled like the spring, Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king Of every virtue gives renown to men!

So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them.

And now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father's house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things; With scarfs and fans and double change of brav'ry, With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav'ry.

He will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a color she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt.

A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?

What are these, So withered and so wild in their attire That took not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth And yet are on't?