Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.

Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.

To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.