Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Nor age so eat up my invention.
How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!