Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?

O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

A gentleman that loves to hear himself talk, will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.

Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.

Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.