Oh what fools we mortals are.

The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.

This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Truth hath a quiet breast.

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!