A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.

Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.

When devils will the blackest sins put on They do suggest at first with heavenly shows

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!