All his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe.

Call for the robin-red-breast, and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men.

Gold that buys health can never be ill spent, Nor hours laid out in harmless merriment.

I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history.

Let guilty men remember, their black deeds Do lean on crutches made of slender reeds.

Prosperity doth bewitch men, seeming clear; As seas do laugh, show white, when rocks are near.

There's nothing sooner dry than women's tears.