There is not in nature, a thing that makes man so deformed, so beastly, as doth intemperate anger.
When I go to hell, I mean to carry a bribe: for look you, good gifts evermore make way for the worst persons.
We are merely the stars tennis-balls, struck and bandied which way please them.
Fortune's a right whore. If she give ought, she deals it in small parcels, that she may take away all at one swoop.