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And ruined love, when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently.
Frame your mind to mirth and merriment, Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.
What is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And live we how we can, yet die we must.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity.
She cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared.
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
The loss of wealth is loss of dirt, As sages in all times assert; The happy man's without a shirt.
This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom's school.