Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
The fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
"Were't not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honored love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness."
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
They say the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain
Pity is the virture of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.
Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent!
Security is the chief enemy of mortals.
Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.
For there was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised, And mine that I was proud on--mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh!
A wicked conscience mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy thoughts.
Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use
The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
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