Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.
In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
Lend less than you owe.
Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?