There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

...lest too light winning make the prize light.

By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.

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

Every offense is not a hate at first.

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.