If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.

Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

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

When faced with a sea of troubles, take action, and in so doing end it.

That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.

Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.