“Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home Can be contented to applaud myself, . . . with joy To see how plump my bags are and my barns.”

Indeed there’s a woundy luck in names.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace Robes loosely flowing, hair as free Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

For a man to write well, there are required three necessaries: to read the best authors, observe the best speakers, and much exercise of his own style.

Sweet meat must have sour sauce.

Language most shows a man; speak that I may see thee; it springs out of the most retired and inmost parts of us, and is the image of the parent of it, the mind. No glass renders a man’s form or likeness so true as his speech.

The burnt child dreads the fire.

Of all wild beasts preserve me from a tyrant; and of all tame a flatterer.

Greatness of name, in the father, ofttimes helps not forth, but overwhelms the son: They stand too near one another. The shadow kills the growth.

Nor use too swelling, or ill-sounded words . . . .

I do honor the very flea of his dog.

Fear to do base, unworthy things is valor; if they be one to us, to suffer them is valor too.

Nothing is more short-lived than pride.

How ready is heaven to those that pray!

Peace is never more than one thought away.

Heaven prepares good men with crosses; but no ill can happen to a good man.

Love that is ignorant and hatred have almost the same ends.