Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.

Every fair from fair sometime declines

To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Friendship is full of dregs.

I see a man's life is a tedious one.