Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next

How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

Costly thy habit [dress] as thy purse can buy; But not expressed in fancy - rich, not gaudy. For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.

Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!

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