And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
All that glisters is not gold.
‘Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support him after.
Your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears; it looks ill, it eats drily.
You taught me language; and my profit on’t is, I know how to curse.
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news hath but a losing office, and his tongue sounds ever after as a sullen bell, remember’d tolling a departing friend.
Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong, my love shall in my verse ever live young.
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.
