Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?

I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

Much rain wears the marble.

Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.

. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?