Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
Joy rul'd the day, and Love the night.
Prodigious actions may as well be done, by weaver's issue, as the prince's son.
Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
The bravest men are subject most to chance.