0 summer friendship, whose flat-tering leaves shadowed us in our prosperity, With the least gust, drop off in the autumn of adversity.
Such as ne'er saw swans May think crows beautiful.
My dancing days are past.
Ambition, in a private man is a vice, is in a prince the virtue.
We have not an hour of life in which our pleasures relish not some pain, our sours, some sweetness.
Malice scorned, puts out itself; but argued, give a kind of credit to a false accusation.