Only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber, never gives.

A snow year, a rich year.

Ah my deare God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.

Short boughs, long vintage.

I escaped the Thunder, and fell into the Lightning.

The dark grave, which knows all secrets, can alone reclaim the fatal doubt once cast on a woman's name.

You cannot make a wind-mill goe with a paire of bellowes.