The Proverb Is Something Musty.

Cold Indeed, And Labor Lost: Then Farewell Heat, And Welcome Frost!

What Drink'st Thou Oft, Instead Of Homage Sweet, But Poisoned Flattery?

Rashly, And Praised Be Rashness For It--let Us Know, Our Indiscretion Sometime Serves Us Well When Our Deep Plots Do Pall, And That Should Learn Us There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.