That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.
Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead.
What feeds me destroys me.
You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute, And now and then stab, as occasion serves.
He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall.