Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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.
It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.
T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.