Twixt kings and tyrants there's this difference known; Kings seek their subjects' good: tyrants their own.

In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.

Humble we must be, if to heaven we go; High is the roof there, but the gate is low.

So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying; Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.

A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.

Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.