Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.
The stars that have most glory have no rest.
Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.
Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.
By adversity are wrought the greatest works of admiration, and all the fair examples of renown, out of distress and misery are grown.
And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world.
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.
The wise are above books.
We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.
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