“Poets are far rarer birds than kings.”

Words borrowed of Antiquity do lend a kind of Majesty to style, and are not without their delight sometimes.

O, for an engine, to keep back all clocks, or make the sun forget his motion!

Money never made any man rich, but his mind. He that can order himself to the law of nature, is not only without the sense, but the fear of poverty.

That I might live alone once with my gold! O, ’tis a sweet companion! kind and true: A man may trust it when his father cheats him, Brother, or friend, or wife. O wondrous pelf! That which makes all men false, is true itself.

Well, as he brews, so shall he drink.

What excellent fools religion makes of men.

Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!

Popular men, They must create strange monsters, and then quell them, To make their arts seem something.

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I’ll not look for wine.

Good men but see death, the wicked taste it.

Now we are all fallen, youth from their fear, And age from that which bred it, good example.

All discourses but my own afflict me; they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome

A good man should and must Sit rather down with loss than rise unjust.

Woman, the more careful she is about her face, the more careless about her house.

For they have the authority of years, and out of their intermission do win to themselves a kind of grace-like newness. But the eldest of the present, and newest of the past Language, is the best.

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast, Still to be powder’d, all perfum’d. Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.