You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

Security is the chief enemy of mortals.

Such as we are made of, such we be.

These violent delights have violent ends.

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.