“Virgil and Horace were the severest writers of the severest age.”

I’m a little wounded, but I am not slain; I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I’ll rise and fight again.

They that possess the prince possess the laws.

None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey’d to see Another’s faults, and his deformity.

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

Merit challenges envy.

Sculptors are obliged to follow the manners of the painters, and to make many ample folds, which are unsufferable hardness, and more like a rock than a natural garment.

For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she’s at rest, and so am I.

Among our crimes oblivion may be set.

Youth should watch joys and shoot them as they fly.

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

Those who write ill, and they who ne’er durst write, Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.

I never saw any good that came of telling truth.

Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.

If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties; for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?

When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.