Men from children nothing differ.

He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.