There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire.
Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.
We see which way the stream of time doth run.
Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth
So quick bright things come to confusion.