The worm is not to be trusted.
It is the mind that makes the body rich; and as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit.
No stony bulwark can resist the love, and love dares what anyone can love.
But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.
So quick bright things come to confusion.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.