Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me!
But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.
They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.