The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage?
However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.
He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.