Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
An undevout astronomer is mad.
A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.