There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold.

For some must watch, while some must sleep So runs the world away

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.

But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.