His tongue is now a stringless instrument.
His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for’s power to thunder.
Her immortal part with angels lives.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself.
He, that loves to be flattered, is worthy o’the flatterer.
He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.
He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age.
He has strangled his language in his tears.
He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
Great floods have flown from simple sources; and great seas have dried when miracles have by the greatest been denied.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say—good night, till itbe morrow.