Are you grown an atheist? Will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the curse' d devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice-candied o'er.

When a man's mind rides faster than his horse can gallop they quickly both tire.

Is not old wine wholesomest, old pippins toothsomest, old wood burn brightest, old linen wash whitest? Old soldiers, sweethearts, are surest, and old lovers are soundest.

Oh, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither.

That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks, who rails into his belief all his defects.

In all our quest of greatness, like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, we follow after bubbles, blown in the air.

Though lust do masque in ne'er so strange disguise she's oft found witty, but is never wise.