It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.

Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold; New things succeed, as former things grow old.

Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.

What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.

The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.

But ne'er the rose without the thorn.

Men are suspicious; prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.