Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
In things a moderation keep; Kings ought to shear, not skin, their sheep.
In vain our labours are, whatsoe'er they be, unless God gives the Benediction.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.
O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
Who with a little cannot be content, endures an everlasting punishment.