Success is a rare paint, hides all the ugliness.
Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.
I prithee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?
Joy never feasts so high as when the first course is of misery.
A quiet mediocrity is still to be preferred before a troubled superfluity.
Tis love in love that makes the sport.