Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.