We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.
All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.