Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.