A politician is the devil's quilted anvil; He fashions all sins on him, and the blows are never heard.

Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.

I have long served virtue, And never ta'en wages of her.

I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history.

I am Duchess of Malfi still.

Is not old wine wholesomest, old pippins toothsomest, old wood burn brightest, old linen wash whitest? Old soldiers, sweethearts, are surest, and old lovers are soundest.

In all our quest of greatness, like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, we follow after bubbles, blown in the air.