This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,--often the surfeit of our own behavior,--we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star.

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.

Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.