The misery of us, that are born great, We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.
Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
Poor maids have more lovers than husbands.
All the damnable degrees Of drinking have you staggered through.
Were there no heaven nor hell I should be honest.
For the subtlest folly proceeds from the subtlest wisdom.