My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth

To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear.

The rest, is silence.

I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.