But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust ensuing danger; as, by proof, we see the waters swell before a boisterous storm.

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

There's daggers in men's smiles.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.