Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.
I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange with-out heresy.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.