When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King.

The icy precepts of respect.

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.

With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.

I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.

O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.