Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
Love hath made thee a tame snake