Mischiefs feed / Like beasts, till they be fat, and then they bleed.

If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul; lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.

The man that is once hated, both his good and his evil deeds oppress him.

And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot.

They, who know no evil, will suspect none.

I know no disease of the soul but ignorance, a pernicious evil, the darkener of man's life, the disturber of his reason, and common confounder of truth.