As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

Love moderately; long love doth so; too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

But like of each thing that in season grows.

Should the poor be flattered? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.