Fate's such a shrewish thing.

And for the authentical truth of either person or actions, who (worth the respecting) will expect it in a poem, whose subject is not truth, but things like truth? Poor envious souls they are that cavil at truth's want in these natural fictions; material instruction, elegant and sententious excitation to virtue, and deflection from her contrary, being the soul, limbs, and limits of an authentical tragedy.

An ill weed grows apace.

Who to himself is law no law doth need; offends none and is king indeed.

Extremes, though contrary, have the like effects. Extreme heat kills, and so extreme cold: extreme love breeds satiety, and so extreme hatred; and too violent rigor tempts chastity, as does too much license.

He that shuns trifles must shun the world.

The incompetent quickly throws himself into another impressive enterprise in order to escape his responsibility from previous disaster.