Men must endure

Their going hence, even as their coming hither:

Ripeness is all.

Men

Are as the time is; to be tender-minded

Does not become a sword.

Many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills.

Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.

Men do their broken weapons

rather use

Than their bare hands.

Men should be what they seem.

Men are not gods;

Nor of them look for such observances

Nought's had, all's spent,

Where our desire is got without content.

Nature never lends

The smallest scruple of her excellence,

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use.

No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,-
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does.

New honours,

Like our strange garments, cleave not to their

mould,

But with the aid of use.

New-made honour doth forget men's names.

Nature craves

All dues be rendered to their owners.

Nature, as it grows again toward earth,
Is fashion'd for the journey, dull, and heavy.

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

Nature must obey necessity.

Never anger

Made good guard for itself.

Notes of sorrow out of tune are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie.

No visor does become black villany
So well as soft and tender flattery.

Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness.

Nature, crescent, does not grow alone

In thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes,
The inward service of the mind and soul
Grows wide withal.

Nothing almost sees miracles but misery.

Nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good, but strain'd from that fair

use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit.