Life... is a paradise to what we know of death.
Too much to know is to know naught but fame.
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
I am not mad; I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself; O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
There is a history in all men's lives.
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season.