I hate the murderer, love him murdered.

They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks.

Tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburdened crawl toward death.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity

Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.