Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
A fusty nut with no kernel.
However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.
He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.
It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.