Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.

Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.

As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.