Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.

Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

We shall be winnowed with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff And good from bad find no partition.

Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.