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Who with a little cannot be content, endures an everlasting punishment.
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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.
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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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