No evil lost is wailed when it is gone.

I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.

Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.

Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers?

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.