For trust not him that hath once broken faith
Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?
Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.
Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity, the less they deserve ... the more merit in your bounty.