The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.

To persist in doing wrong extenuates not the wrong, but makes it much more heavy.

Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.

Base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.