He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

Security is the chief enemy of mortals.