He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
They do not love that do not show their love.
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!