Every good servant does not all commands.

How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated

O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.

How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.

Do not spread the compost on the weeds.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.