Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But looked to near, have neither heat nor light.
Were there no heaven nor hell I should be honest.
Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent. 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise.
Lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle.
Is not old wine wholesomest, old pippins toothsomest, old wood burn brightest, old linen wash whitest? Old soldiers, sweethearts, are surest, and old lovers are soundest.
I am Duchess of Malfi still.