He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
He is white-livered and red-faced.
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently