We Cannot All Be Masters.

O Teach Me How I Should Forget To Think (1.1.224)

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

Farewell, A Long Farewell To All My Greatness! This Is The State Of Man: Today He Puts Forth The Tender Leaves Of Hope, Tomorrow Blossoms, And Bears His Blushing Honours Thick Upon Him: The Third Day Comes A Frost, A Killing Frost, And - When He Thinks, Good Easy Man, Full Surely His Greatness Is A-ripening - Nips His Root, And Then He Falls, As I Do.

Crack'd In Pieces By Malignant Death.