He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

Grace and remembrance be to you both.

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!

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.

Give obedience where 'tis truly owed.

Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; he tires betimes that spurs too fast.

To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.