Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.

Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.

Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.

Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.