Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame

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

The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.

We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.

Make not your thoughts your prisons.

I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange with-out heresy.