You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head; not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.

The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.

O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.