Ill natures, the more you aske them, the more they stick.
Hee that will deceive the fox, must rise betimes.
It's not good fishing before the net.
Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.
Love without end, hath no end, says the Spaniard: (meaning, if it were not begun on particular ends, it would last).
We must recoile a little, to the end we may leap the better.