For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.

Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.

There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.

Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: And some condemned for a fault alone.

To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run.