No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.