If little labour, little are our gains;Man’s fortunes are according to his pains.

Man may want land to live in; but for allNature finds out some place for burial.

Dread not the shackles; on with thine intent,Good wits get more fame by their punishment.

Twixt truth and error, there’s this difference knownError is fruitful, truth is only one.

Those ends in war the best contentment bring,Whose peace is made up with a pardoning.

Great cities seldom rest; if there be noneT’ invade from far, they’ll find worse foes at home.

In man, ambition is the common’st thing;Each one by nature loves to be a king.

Here we are all, by day; by night we’re hurl’dBy dreams, each one into a several world.

Love is a circle, that doth restless moveIn the same sweet eternity of Love.

In prayer the lips ne’er act the winning partWithout the sweet concurrence of the heart.

True mirth resides not in the smiling skin;The sweetest solace is to act no sin.

Every time seems short to beThat’s measured by felicity;But one half-hour that’s made up hereWith grief, seems longer than a year.

While fates permit us, let’s be merry;Pass all we must the fatal ferry;And this our life, too, whirls away,With the rotation of the day.

Great men by small means oft are overthrown;He’s lord of thy life, who contemns his own.

Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not letHis gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.

Man knows where first he ships himself; but heNever can tell where shall his landing be.

Let’s live in haste; use pleasures while we may;Could life return, ‘twould never lose a day.

Good things, that come of course, far less do pleaseThan those which come by sweet contingencies.

Wrinkles no more are, or no less,Than beauty turn’d to sourness.

Men say you’re fair; and fair ye are, ’tis true;But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.