Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.

Fear to do base, unworthy things is valor; if they be one to us, to suffer them is valor too.

Tell troth and shame the devil.

Cares that have entered once in the breast, will have whole possession of the rest.

Though I am young, and cannot tell Either what Death or Love is well, Yet I have heard they both bear darts, And both do aim at human hearts. And then again, I have been told Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold; So that I fear they do but bring Extremes to touch, and mean one thing. As in a ruin we it call One thing to be blown up, or fall; Or to our end like way may have By a flash of lightning, or a wave; So Love’s inflamèd shaft or brand May kill as soon as Death’s cold hand; Except Love’s fires the virtue have To fight the frost out of the grave.

Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.

Of all wild beasts preserve me from a tyrant; and of all tame a flatterer.