I saw him even now going the way of all flesh, that is to say towards the kitchen.

My soul, like to a ship in a black storm,
Is driven, I know not whither.

Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent. . . . 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise.

Glories like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But looked to near, have neither heat nor light.

When I go to hell, I mean to carry a bribe: for look you, good gifts evermore make way for the worst persons.