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

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not?

I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.

Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.