Heaven Hath Many Tongues To Talk Of

Ambition Is Torment Enough For An Enemy; For It Affords As Much Discontentment In Enjoying As In Want, Making Men Like Poisoned Rats, Which, When They Have Tasted Of Their Bane, Cannot Rest Till They Drink, And Then Can Much Less Rest Till They Die

There Is No Word Or Action But May Be Taken With Two Hands,--either With The Right Hand Of Charitable Construction, Or The Sinister Interpretation Of Malice And Suspicion; And All Things Do Succeed As They Are Taken. To Construe An Evil, Action Well Is But A Pleasing And Profitable Deceit To Myself; But To Misconstrue A Good Thing Is A Treble Wrong,--to Myself, The Action, And The Author.

That Which The French Proverb Hath Of Sickness Is True Of All Evils, That They Come On Horseback, And Go Away On Foot; We Have Often Seen A Sudden Fall Or One Meal's Surfeit Hath Stuck By Many To Their Graves; Whereas Pleasures Come Like Oxen, Slow, And Heavily, And Go Away Like Post-horses, Upon The Spur.

The Proud Man Hath No God; The Envious Man Hath No Neighbor; The Angry Man Hath Not Himself.

We Are Often Infinitely Mistaken, And Take The Falsest Measures, When We Envy The Happiness Of Rich And Great Men; We Know Not The Inward Canker That Eats Out All Their Joy And Delight, And Makes Them Really Much More Miserable Than Ourselves.