For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.

Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.

Boldness be my friend.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.

Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see

Ingratitude is monstrous.