What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
The purest treasure mortal times can afford is a spotless reputation.
He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
These words are razors to my wounded heart.