“Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.”

Hell itself must yield to industry.

Tis the common disease of all your musicians that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin or end.

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

O! How vain and vile a passion is this fear! What base uncomely things it makes men do.

One woman reads another’s character Without the tedious trouble of deciphering

A valiant man Ought not to undergo, or tempt a danger, But worthily, and by selected ways, He undertakes with reason, not by chance. His valor is the salt t’ his other virtues, They’re all unseason’d without it.

Books are faithful repositories, which may be awhile neglected or forgotten, but when they are opened again, will again impart their instruction.

How Fortune piles her sports when she begins to practise them!

He that would have his virtue published, is not the servant of virtue, but glory.

Fortune, thou hadst no deity, if men Had wisdom.

Art hath an enemy call’d ignorance .

The man that is once hated, both his good and his evil deeds oppress him.

No simple word That shall be uttered at our mirthful board, Shall make us sad next morning; or affright The liberty that we’ll enjoy to-night.

… the best pilots have need of mariners, besides sails, anchor and other tackle.

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?

The covetous man never has money. The prodigal will have none shortly.