Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.

I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!

But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.

We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.

When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.