I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends

He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million; laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies. And what's his reason? I am a Jew.

All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.

What soilders whey-face? The English for so please you. Take thy face hence.

Past and to come, seems best; things present, worse.

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.