To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.
Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.
The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue!
The nature of bad news affects the teller.
Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.