We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.
Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
Come, Lady, die to live.
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.
Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.