When we are born, we cry, that we are come<br /> To this great stage of fools.

When griping grief the heart doth wound,<br /> and doleful dumps the mind opresses,<br /> then music, with her silver sound,<br /> with speedy help doth lend...

We know what we are, but not what we may be.

The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.

The sands are number'd that make up my life.

The soul of this man is in his clothes.

The trust I have is in mine innocence,<br /> and therefore am I bold and resolute.

Their understanding<br /> Begins to swell and the approaching tide<br /> Will shortly fill the reasonable shores<br /> That now lie foul and muddy.

Thou art all the comfort,<br /> The Gods will diet me with.

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.

Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.

Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.

We are advertis'd by our loving friends.

We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.

Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; take honour from me and my life is done.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.