No author ever spar'd a brother.
O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.
Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.
Thus shadow owes its birth to light.
From kings to cobblers 'tis the same; Bad servants wound their masters' fame.
One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.