I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me.
I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other.
How well he’s read, to reason against reading!
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
He’s winding up the Watch of his wit, By and by it will strike.
He will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool.
He hath not fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; be hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts:
Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessèd time, for from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead. The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break.
Give me that man That is not passion’s slave.
Full oft we see cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
