He is not great who is not greatly good.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!

The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

There is plenty of time to sleep in the grave

If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.

Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.

Waste not thy time in windy argument but let the matter drop.