The poorest service is repaid with thanks.
Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
O villains, vipers, dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
What's done is done. The joy is in the doing.
Beware the ides of March.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?