So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
I fill up a place, which may be better... when I have made it empty.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
It is thyself, mine own self's better part; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.