The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.

Misery makes sport to mock itself.

Hold, or cut bowstrings.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.