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.