The sooner you treat your son as a man, the sooner he will be one.

Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.

Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

I'm a little wounded, but I am not slain; I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I'll rise and fight again.

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.

So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.

My love's a noble madness.