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.

That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks, who rails into his belief all his defects.

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.

Sorrow is held the eldest child of sin.

Oh, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither.

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

Heaven fashioned us of nothing; and we strive to bring ourselves to nothing.