No evil lost is wailed when it is gone.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Truth hath a quiet breast.
. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.