Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. - William Shakespeare

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream — For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life

For it falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost,
Why, then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
While it was ours.