When a father gives to his son, both laugh when a son gives to his father, both cry.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.