He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.

How sour sweet music is When time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives.

Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.

Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear't that th' opposed may be beware of thee.

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Let us not burden our remembrance with A heaviness that's gone.

Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.