Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet strongly loves!
As true a lover As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow.
To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
Adam was a gardener.
Nothing almost sees miracles But misery.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility, But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger. Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage.
He is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war.
Where the greater malady is fixed, The lesser is scarce felt.