All that glisters is not gold.
Well said, old mole!
Who doth molest my contemplation?
By this reckoning he is more a shrew than she.
Yield not thy neck To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.
These, indeed, seem; For they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passes show—  These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life.
Men in rage strike those that wish them best.