But what is past my help is past my care.

Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under Fortune's false lottery, desperately run To death, for dread of death; that soul's most stout, That, bearing all mischance, dares last it out.

Honor's a thing too subtle for wisdom; if honor lie in eating, he's right honorable.

As high as Heaven, as deep as Hell.

You are no better than you should be.

If men wound you with injuries, meet them with patience; hasty words rankle the wound, soft language dresses it, forgiveness cures it, and oblivion takes away the scar. It is more noble by silence to avoid an injury than by argument to overcome it.

There is a method in man's wickedness; it grows up by degrees.