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.

Poets are far rarer birds than kings.

Now we are all fallen, youth from their fear, And age from that which bred it, good example.

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.

Weigh the meaning and look not at the words.

True gladness doth not always speak; joy, bred and born but in the tongue, is weak.

No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.