Virtue's Office Never Breaks Men's Troth.

The Hand That Hath Made You Fair Hath Made You Good.

Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have All His Rites.

Time Hath, My Lord, A Wallet At His Back Wherein He Puts Alms For Oblivion, A Great-sized Monster Of Ingratitudes: Those Scraps Are Good Deeds Past, Which Are Devour'd As Fast As They Are Made, Forgot As Soon As Done.

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.