We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.

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