Humble we must be, if to heaven we go; High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head towards me, Guess I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.
None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
But ne'er the rose without the thorn.