Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.
I do love I know not what; Sometimes this, and sometimes that.
Tears are the noble language of eyes, and when true love of words is destitute. The eye by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.
Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.