Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

Is it not strange, that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies!

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.