To have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.
'Tis the soldier's life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.
Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
Cursed be he that moves my bones.
Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!