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.
Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart.
Shining through tears, like April suns in showers, that labor to overcome the cloud that loads em.
Honesty needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
Could my griefs speak, the tale would have no end.
Who's a prince or beggar in the grave?