O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

Like madness, is the glory of this life.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.

Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none

There's nothing in this world can make me joy.