For what I will, I will, and there an end.
We cannot fight for love, as men may do; we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.
Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh