To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff.

His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.

Love that we cannot have is the one that lasts the longest,hurts the deepest,but feels the strongest

If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.