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.

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven

The Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!

An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.

The weakest goes to the wall.

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.