Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated

The devil knew what he did when he made men politic; he crossed himself by it.

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.

When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.