Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
A pretty woman's worth some pains to see.
As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
A man in armor is his armor's slave.
Time'swheelsrunsbackor stops: Potterand clayendure.
I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.