An ugly woman in a rich habit set out with jewels nothing can become.

To die is landing on some distant shore.

Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.

If you have lived, take thankfully the past. Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.

All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.