Children blessings seem, but torments are.

Shining through tears, like April suns in showers, that labor to overcome the cloud that loads em.

Who's a prince or beggar in the grave?

Clocks will go as they are set, but man, irregular man, is never constant, never certain.

The worst thing an old man can be is a lover.

No flattery, boy! an honest man cannot live by it; it is a little, sneaking art, which knaves use to cajole and soften fools withal.

Honest men are the soft easy cushions on which knaves repose and fatten.