It is a wise father that knows his own child.
It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.
Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.
If our virtues did not go forth of us, it were all alike as if we had them not.