The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

Do not spread the compost on the weeds.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich

A good wit will make use of anything.

He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. He that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.

And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach, Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.