“Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves.”

“How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Iago”

“I pray thee, cease thy counsel,Which falls into mine ears as profitlessAs water in a sieve: give not me counsel;Nor let no comforter delight mine earBut such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine:... for, brother, menCan counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,Their counsel turns to passion, which beforeWould give preceptial medicine to rage,Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,Charm ache with air and agony with words.No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patienceTo those that wring under the load of sorrow,But no man's virtue nor sufficiencyTo be so moral when he shall endureThe like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:My griefs cry louder than advertisement.”

“But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.”

“Men in rage strike those that wish them best.”

“But that the dread of something after death,The undiscover'd country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?”

“This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,Which gives men stomach to digest his wordsWith better appetite.”