Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.
Who with a little cannot be content, endures an everlasting punishment.
What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.