Th abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.
So our virtues lie in the interpretation of the time
To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.
Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.