... but the longest day hath its evening.

... but the longest day hath its evening.

But it is hard to know them from friends, they are so obsequious and full of protestations; for a wolf resembles a dog, so doth a flatterer a friend.

What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tyring houses be, Where we are drest for this short Comedy.

Our bodies are but the anvils of pain and disease and our minds the hives of unnumbered cares.

Better were it to be unborn than to be ill bred.

I shall never be persuaded that God hath shut up all light of learning within the lantern of Aristotle's brain.