In all our quest of greatness, like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, we follow after bubbles, blown in the air.

Love mixed with fear is sweetness.

Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.

Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin.

Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But looked to near, have neither heat nor light.

All the damnable degrees Of drinking have you staggered through.

Poor maids have more lovers than husbands.