The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.

Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know.

He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!

Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.