I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.

O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.

He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him; if stronger, spare thyself.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

Time is the king of men.