God wisheth none should wreck on a strange shelf: To him man's dearer than to himself.
Minds that are great and free, should not on fortune pause: 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.
A new disease? I know not, new or old, but it may well be called poor mortals plague for, like a pestilence, it doth infect the houses of the brain till not a thought, or motion, in the mind, be free from the black poison of suspect.
Opinion is a light, vain, crude, and imperfect thing.
He that is respectless in his courses oft sells his reputation at cheap market.
Tell troth and shame the devil.