The clouds may drop down titles and estates, and wealth may seek us, but wisdom must be sought.

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.

Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

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