Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.

The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.