There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

The apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

Therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear. My comfort is that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst, and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better.