Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.
The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.