To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.

This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.