My crown is in my heart, not on my head; Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen: my crown is called content: A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.
Murder’s out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh.
Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
Misery makes sport to mock itself.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
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.
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
Men’s vows are women’s traitors!
Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water.
Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
Men are April when they woo, December when they wed; maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
