One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.

Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon'd round, And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown'd? No; the dead know it not, nor profit gain; It only serves to prove the living vain.

What frenzy dictates, jealousy believes

My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

A woman's friendship ever ends in love.

From kings to cobblers 'tis the same; Bad servants wound their masters' fame.

You can only be called a hypocrite if you judge others first.