For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.

The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

He must needs go that the devil drives.

Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.