Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.

Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.

I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die

Faint heart never won fair maid.