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.

Though lust do masque in ne'er so strange disguise she's oft found witty, but is never wise.

All the damnable degrees Of drinking have you staggered through.

Are you grown an atheist? Will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? Oh, the curse' d devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice-candied o'er.

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

That realm is never long in quiet, where the ruler is a soldier.

Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent. 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise.