Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove.
Poor and content is rich and rich enough.
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
Patience is scottish, and impatience does become a dog that’s mad.
Patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk with candle-wasters; bring him yet to me, and I of him will gather patience.
Past and to come seems best; things present worst.
Our stomachs will make what’s homely savoury.
Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.
