Much rain wears the marble.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

Would I were in an alehouse in London.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.

Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.