Many go out for wool, and come home shorn themselves.

Where one door shuts another opens.

Every man was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

Tis ill talking of halters in the house of a man that was hanged.

Old, that's an affront no woman can well bear.

The absent feel and fear every ill.

A shy face is better than a forward heart.

He had a face like a blessing.

The proof of the pudding is the eating.

Let us forget and forgive injuries.

Blessed be he who invented sleep, a cloak that covers all a man's thoughts.

From reading too much, and sleeping too little, his brain dried up on him and he lost his judgment.

Many littles make a much.

No fathers or mothers think their own children ugly.

'Tis the maddest trick a man can ever play in his whole life, to let his breath sneak out of his body without any more ado, and without so much as a rap o'er the pate, or a kick of the guts; to go out like the snuff of a farthing candle, and die merely of the mulligrubs, or the sullens.

Once a woman parts with her virtue, she loses the esteem even of the man whose vows and tears won her to abandon it.

I drink when I have occasion, and sometimes when I have no occasion.

The sky's the limit.

With these meager scraps of Latin and the like, you may perhaps be taken for a scholar, which is honorable and profitable these days.

That one man scorned and covered with scars

Still strove with his last ounce of courage

To reach the unreachable star.