O, that our fathers would applause our loves, To seal our happiness with hteir consents!
The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
Let the end try the man.
There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.