Many strokes overthrow the tallest oaks.
I thank you for nothing, because I understand nothing.
Whatsoever is in the heart of the sober man, is in the mouth of the drunkard.
A comely olde man as busie as a bee.
A heat full of coldness, a sweet full of bitterness, a pain full of pleasantness, which maketh thoughts have eyes and hearts ears, bred by desire, nursed by delight, weaned by jealousy, kill'd by dissembling, buried by ingratitude, and this is love.
As love knoweth no lawes, so it regardeth no conditions