A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.
Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
To persist in doing wrong extenuates not the wrong, but makes it much more heavy.