We are merely the stars tennis-balls, struck and bandied which way please them.
That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks, who rails into his belief all his defects.
For the subtlest folly proceeds from the subtlest wisdom.
Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.
Though lust do masque in ne'er so strange disguise she's oft found witty, but is never wise.
Integrity of life is fame's best friend, which nobly, beyond death, shall crown in the end.
