How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Tis the mind that makes the body rich.
That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.