Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.
All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.