The proverb is something musty.

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Give thanks for what you are today and go on fighting for what you gone be tomorrow

That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.