Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.

Women's weapons, water-drops.

Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.

The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you.

All pride is willing pride.

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because t'was night?