Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Twixt kings and tyrants there's this difference known; Kings seek their subjects' good: tyrants their own.
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.