The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.

A true repentance shuns the evil itself, more than the external suffering or the shame.

When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.