He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.

This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.