His poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunned poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone.
O that men's ears should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery!
Dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?
I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment, But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.
I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is.
O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength, but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.
I would not lose so great an honor As one man more methinks would share with me For the best hope I have.
My books and instruments shall be my company, On them to look and practise by myself.
There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
For his bounty, There was no winter in't; an autumn it was That grew the more by reaping.