In a word, we may gather out of History a policy no less wise than I eternal; by the comparison and application of other mens fore-passed miseries with our own like errours and ill-deservings.

The gain of lying is nothing else but not to be trusted of any, nor to be believed when we say the truth.

An anthology is like all the plums and orange peel picked out of a cake.

What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tyring houses be, Where we are drest for this short Comedy.

Passions are likened best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.

Trust few men; above all, keep your follies to yourself.

Even such isTime, which takes in trust Our youth, our joys, and all we have, And pays us but with age and dust, Who in the dark and silent grave When we have wandered all our ways Shuts up the story of our days, And from which earth, and grave, and dust The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.