Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity—So it be new, there’s no respect how vile—That is not quickly buzzed into his ears?
Thy overflow of good converts to bad.
The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
Patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Misery makes sport to mock itself.
Mine honour is my life; both grow in one: Take honour from me, and my life is done: Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live and for that will I die.
Lions make leopards tame.
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
Let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d; All murder’d.
Joy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me the more of sorrow.
