All that glitters is not gold.

What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*

Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.

A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.