Our whole life is like a play.
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.
All concord's born of contraries.
Heaven prepares good men with crosses; but no ill can happen to a good man.
Ambition makes more trusty slaves than need
I do honor the very flea of his dog.