It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.

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

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.

Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.

This above all; to thine own self be true.

I have no way and therefore want no eyes I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen our means secure us, and our mere defects prove our commodities.