They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks.

He knows what it's like to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then be heard no more.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

the time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely were too long.

More of your conversation would infect my brain.