But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.