Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.

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.

Love is begun by time and time qualifies the spark and fire of it.

Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

The head is not more native to the heart.

Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.