Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

I have supped full with horrors.

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

A beggar's book outworths a noble's blood.

Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head?