Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

Ingrateful man with liquorish draughts, and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind that from it all consideration slips.

O, had I but followed the arts!

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.