Count not fowre except you have them in a wallett.
Go not for every grief to the physician, nor for every quarrell to the lawyer, nor for every thirst to the pot.
Honour without profit is a ring on the finger.
Neither eyes on letters, nor hands in coffers.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.
Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart could have recovered greenness?