Bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.
The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
He that dies this year is quit for the next.
They that have voice of lions and act of hares,--are they not monsters?
And send him many years of sunshine days!
For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.