Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
Sometimes, less is more.
Truth hath a quiet breast.
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!