Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.

My love's a noble madness.

That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, contains the shoring treasure of a soul resolved and brave.

Let cheerfulness on happy fortune wait.

He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.