Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.

Neither do thou lust after that tawny weed tobacco.

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.

Popular men, They must create strange monsters, and then quell them, To make their arts seem something.

A thankful man owes a courtesy ever; the unthankful but when he needs it.

The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.

How ready is heaven to those that pray!