The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?

A man of pleasure is a man of pains.