Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, the which in every language I pronounce, stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
Lord, lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
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.
When we mean to build, we first survey the plot, then draw the model. And when we see the figure of the house, then must we rate the cost of the erection.
We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.
There is a history in all men’s lives.
Rumour is a pipe blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures and of so easy and so plain a stop that the blunt monster with uncounted heads, the still-discordant wavering multitude, can play upon it.
Past and to come seems best, things present worst.
Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up!
O sleep, o gentle sleep, nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, that thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down and steep my senses in forgetfulness?
O God, that one might read the book of fate.