The swan murmurs sweet strains with a flattering tongue, itself the singer of its own dirge.

Our days pass by, and are scored against us.

Neither fear your death's day nor long for it.

Epigrams need no crier, but are content with their own tongue.

You crystal break, for fear of breaking it: Careless and careful hands like faults commit.

I have not hated the man, but his faults.

Gifts are like hooks.