A Rotten Case Abides No Handling.

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.

I Can Get No Remedy Against This Consumption Of The Purse: Borrowing Only Lingers And Lingers It Out, But The Disease Is Incurable.

There's Never A Villain Dwelling In All Denmark But He's An Arrant Knave.

To Wilful Men, The Injuries That They Themselves Procure Must Be Their Schoolmasters.

Some Grief Shows Much Of Love, But Much Of Grief Shows Still Some Want Of Wit.