Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.
The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveller.
Time is the subtle thief of youth.
So scented the grim Feature, and upturn'd His nostril wide into the murky air, Sagacious of his quarry from so far.
Let none admire that riches grow in hell; that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
Fear of change perplexes monarchs.