There's a time for all things.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate
Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
Be merry; you have cause, so have we all, of joy; for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
Do not spread the compost on the weeds.
We are oft to blame in this, - 'tis too much proved, - that with devotion's visage, and pios action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.