My chastity's the jewel of our house, bequeathed down from many ancestors.
The golden age is before us, not behind us.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.
Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.