Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known

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

Ingrateful man with liquorish draughts, and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind that from it all consideration slips.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks

Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.