Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.

All that glitters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life has sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold Had you been as wise as bold, Your in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been in'scroll'd Fare you well: your suit is cold.' Cold, indeed, and labour lost: Then, farewell, heat and welcome, frost!

The head is not more native to the heart.

The worm is not to be trusted.

Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.