Woman's honor is nice as ermine; it will not bear a soil.
Even kings but play; and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
Among our crimes oblivion may be set.
Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
The winds are out of breath.
He is the very Janus of poets; he wears almost everywhere two faces; and you have scarce begun to admire the one, ere you despise the other.