The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.

All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.

This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.