I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns.
The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.