āHe lives in fame that died in virtue's cause.ā
āGet thee to a nunnery.ā
āWolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.ā
āWhat, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.ā
āI am not bound to please thee with my answer.ā
āAway, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!ā
āI say, without characters, fame lives long.ā
āLet fame, that all hunt after in their lives,Live regist'red upon our brazen tombsAnd then grace us in the disgrace of death;When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,Th' endeavor of this present breath may buyThat honor which shall bate his scythe's keen edgeAnd make us heirs of all eternity.ā
āGlory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.ā