The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.
Nothing can seem foul to those who win.
O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
They are but beggars that can count their worth.