Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

So many horrid Ghosts.

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.

You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.

Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.

And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.

what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes