Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste.
Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.
There is plenty of time to sleep in the grave
Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school.
If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.