Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.

Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.

Soft pity enters an iron gate.

Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.