Least end of a hair will serve to draw them into my discourse
     Let us not seek our disease out of ourselves; ’tis in us
     Look on death not only without astonishment but without care
     Melancholy:  Are there not some constitutions that feed upon it? 
     Most cruel people, and upon frivolous occasions, apt to cry. 
     No beast in the world so much to be feared by man as man
     Our extremest pleasure has some sort of groaning
     Our fancy does what it will, both with itself and us
     Owe ourselves chiefly and mostly to ourselves
     Petulant madness contends with itself
     Rage it puts them to oppose silence and coldness to their fury
     Rash and incessant scolding runs into custom
     Revenge, which afterwards produces a series of new cruelties
     See how flexible our reason is
     Seeming anger, for the better governing of my house
     Shake the truth of our Church by the vices of her ministers
     Take my last leave of every place I depart from
     The gods sell us all the goods they give us
     The storm is only begot by a concurrence of angers
     Though nobody should read me, have I wasted time
     Tis said of Epimenides, that he always prophesied backward
     Tis then no longer correction, but revenge
     Upon the precipice, ’tis no matter who gave you the push
     “When will this man be wise,” said he, “if he is yet learning?”
     When you see me moved first, let me alone, right or wrong
     Young are to make their preparations, the old to enjoy them