There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come
No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.
Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.
He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache
My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.