Who casts to write a living line, must sweat.
He who is taught only by himself has a fool for a master.
In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be.
I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.
True melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit.
Ods me I marle what pleasure or felicity they have in taking their roguish tobacco. It is good for nothing but to choke a man, and fill him full of smoke and embers.