When we risk no contradiction, It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.

Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.

The sun was set; the night came on apace, And falling dews bewet around the place; The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings, And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings.

A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much

A rich rogue nowadays is fit company for any gentleman; and the world, my dear, hath not such a contempt for roguery as you imagine.

Who hath not heard the rich complain Of surfeits, and corporeal pain? He barr'd from every use of wealth, Envies the ploughman's strength and health.

How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays around the flame!