Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

She dreams of him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!

Too much to know is to know naught but fame.

Pardon's the word to all.

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know.

That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in. and the best of me is diligence.

Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.