The proverb is something musty.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Ingratitude is monstrous.

A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands, Arrested by the holy close of lips, Strength'ned by the interchangement of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact Seal'd in my function, by my testimony.

The fewer men, the greater share of honor.

Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold?