O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.

Every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behind him in which he stows his own.

What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.

Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.