Truth needs no color; beauty, no pencil.
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.
Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.
Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.