To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.

What is aught but as 'tis valued?

O sir, you are old; nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine; you should be ruled and led by some discretion, that discerns your fate better than you yourself.

When a gentlemen is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

Thou unfit for any place but hell.