I have ever thought so superstitiously of wit, that I fear I have committed idolatry against wisdom.
The rattling thunderbolt hath but his clap, the lightning but his flash, and as they both come in a moment, so do they both end in a minute.
There can no great smoke arise, but there must be some fire.
Long quaffing maketh a short lyfe.
Where the countenance is fair, there need no colors.
In arguing of the shadow, we forgo the substance.