Look at a gown of gold, and you will at least get a sleeve of it.
Heaven know its time; the bullet has its billet
I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my grey friar's frock, and all shall be well again.
Honour is a homicide and a bloodspiller, that gangs about making frays in the street; but Credit is a decent honest man, that sits at hame and makes the pat play.
Welcome as the flowers in May.
Will future ages believe that such stupid bigotry ever existed!