If our virtues did not go forth of us, it were all alike as if we had them not.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

Words to deeds cold breath gives.

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

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

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.