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Here's our chief guest. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming.

Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.

Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table.

See, your guests approach. Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let's be red with mirth.

Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.

And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.

But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised, And mine that I was proud on--mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh!

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.

How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.

So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps.

Celerity is never more admired Than by the negligent.

Nay, but make haste, the better foot before.

Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.

I go, I go, look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say 'It lightens.'

Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.

Methinks I am a prophet new inspired And thus, expiring, do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small show'rs last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding doth choke the feeder; Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

In time we hate that which we often fear.

Yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will; The very devils cannot plague them better.