A beggar's book outworths a noble's blood.
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Woe to that land that's governed by a child.
As chaste as unsunned snow.
For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.