Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?
A light wife doth make a heavy husband.
Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.
The object of Art is to give life a shape.