A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.

What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.

However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.

For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.

There is a tide in the affairs of men