Be great in act, as you have been in thought.

My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.

Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

Tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.

Soft pity enters an iron gate.