In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
The fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
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!
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.
They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;
the thief doth fear each bush an officer.
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon, And the imperial vot'ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
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