Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.

There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.

Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.