Report me and my cause aright.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?
Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.
Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.
They are but beggars that can count their worth.
A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.