The will of man is by his reason sway'd.

Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?

You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.

Take you me for a sponge?