Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

The object of Art is to give life a shape.

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

The devil knew what he did when he made men politic; he crossed himself by it.