what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.
There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.