He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen, him not know t, and he's not robbed at all.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.
O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
Wish chastely, and love dearly.
Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.