Greatness knows itself.

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.

But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.

By Heaven, I love thee better than myself