Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently

One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.

Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.