We are ne’er like angels till our passion dies

The best of men That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer; A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed.

To add to golden numbers golden numbers.

A wise man poor Is like a sacred book that’s never read,— To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead. This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom’s school.

Honest labour bears a lovely face.

And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds, There ’s a lean fellow beats all conquerors.

I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman.