As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

There is a world elsewhere.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.

I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.

Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.