It often falls, in course of common life, that right long time is overborne of wrong.
Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
Fly from wrath; sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war; a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
Ill can he rule the great that cannot reach the small.
All for love, and nothing for reward.
Ah when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend! How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!