Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
Truth needs not flowers of speech.
Dogs, ye have had your day!
All Nature is but art, unknown to thee All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good.
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake.
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.