Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

What can be happier than for a man, conscious of virtuous acts, and content with liberty, to despise all human affairs?

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried.

But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

The villany you teach me I shall execute; and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.