There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
O war! thou son of Hell!
He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
He is well paid that is well satisfied.
We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.