On Rumor's tongue continual slanders ride.
Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.
So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.
My pride fell with my fortunes.
Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.