There is a certain delicacy which in yielding conquers; and with a pitiful look makes one find cause to crave help one's self.
My thoughts, imprisoned in my secret woes, with flamy breaths do issue oft in sound.
Ring out your bells! Let mourning show be spread! For Love is dead.
Inquisitiveness is an uncomely guest.
Much more may a judge overweigh himself in cruelty than in clemency.
High honor is not only gotten and born by pain and danger, but must be nursed by the like, else it vanisheth as soon as it appears to the world.