Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
Though she be but little, she is fierce.
No, they cannot touch me for coining; I am the king himself.
Boys who, being mature in knowledge,Pawn their experience to their present pleasure.
Another lean, unwashed artificer.
Blow, wind! come, wrack!At least we'll die with harness on our back.
Things that are not at all, are never lost.
A wise man loses nothing, if he but save himself.
But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
That puts it not unto the touchTo win or lose it all.
What's saved affordsNo indication of what's lost.
No man can lose what he never had.
Losers must have leave to speak.
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