There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.

The many fail: the one succeeds.

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.