I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.

Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them.

We must follow, not force Providence.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?

Thou art a very ragged Wart.

Have more than you show, Speak less than you know.

What is aught but as 'tis valued?