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Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!

For he that once is good, is ever great.

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it falls and die that night-- It was the plant and flower of Light.

The gods Grow angry with your patience. 'Tis their care, And must be yours, that guilty men escape not: As crimes do grow, justice should rouse itself.

But I do hate him as I hate the devil.

Great honours are great burdens, but on whom They are cast with envy, he doth bear two loads. His cares must still be double to his joys, In any dignity.

To speak and to speak well, are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.

And I had lent my watch last night to one That dines to-day at the sheriff's.

It strikes! one, two, Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch, Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest; Would thou could'st make the time to do so too; I'll wind thee up no more.

So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue, And loud withal, that would not wag, not scarce Lie still without a fee.

Laugh, and be fat, sir, your penance is known. They that love mirth, let them heartily drink, 'Tis the only receipt to make sorrow sink.

Small Latin, and less Greek.

If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick.

Pleasure the servant, Virtue looking on.

O what is it proud slime will not believe Of his own worth, to hear it equal praised Thus with the gods?

Princes that would their people should do well Must at themselves begin, as at the head; For men, by their example, pattern out Their limitations, and regard of laws: A virtuous court a world to virtue draws.

A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his government is groping.

They say Princes learn no art truly, but the art of horsemanship. The reason is, the brave beast is no flatterer. He will throw a Prince as soon as his groom.

Follow a shadow, it still flies you, Seem to fly, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?

I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing he never plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.