Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.
Nature does require her times of preservation.
Don't judge a man's conscience by looking at his face cause he may have a bad heart.
I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
O, had I but followed the arts!