In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

On pain of death, no person be so bold.

Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.

Passion makes the will lord of the reason.

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

All the world's a stage.