Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
The devil...the prowde spirite...cannot endure to be mocked.
A pretty wife is something for the fastidious vanity of a roue to retire upon.
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.