Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
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.
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.
Joy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me the more of sorrow.
