They are but beggars that can count their worth.
Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
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.
In brief, sir, study what you most affect.
It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.
No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.