Is not the truth the truth?
The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.
By Heaven, I love thee better than myself
Some falls the means are happier to rise.
For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.