How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
We know what we are, but not what we may be.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
I am not merry; but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.
'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.
Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.
The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation; that away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
Action is eloquence.
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