More matter with less art.

What the great ones do, the less will prattle of

But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'? I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' Stuck in my throat.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

Conscience is a blushing, shamefaced spirit than mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles.

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.