Slander,

Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose

tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie

All corners of the world: kings, queens, and

states,

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters.

Society is no comfort to one not sociable.

Some falls are means the happier to arise.

Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.

Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

Striving to better, oft we mar what's well.

Sad hours seem long.

The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd.

They do not love that do not shew their love.

To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

Truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

The current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage.

That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

The strongest oaths are straw

To the fire i' the blood.

To die, is to be banished from myself.

'Tis the curse in love, and still approved, When women cannot love where they're beloved.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.

To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.

This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice; which, with an hour's heat, Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form.

There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

'Twas never merry world,

Since lowly feigning was called compliment.

There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman, than report of valour.

'Tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan.

That in the captain's but a choleric word,
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

That that is, is.

There is no darkness but ignorance.

The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

Thieves for their robbery have authority,
When judges steal themselves.

The miserable have no other medicine,
But only hope.

The poor beetle, that we tread upon,

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

Truth is truth

To the end of the reckoning.

Thoughts are no subjects;

Intents but merely thoughts.

The sense of death is most in apprehension.