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

Ambition, madam, is a great man's madness.

Lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle.

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.

Gold that buys health can never be ill spent, Nor hours laid out in harmless merriment.

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.

How many ills spring from adultery? First the supreme law that is violated, Nobility oft stain'd with bastardy, Inheritance of land falsely possessed, The husband scorn'd, wife sham'd, and babes unbless'd.