“If gold rust, what then will iron do? For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust.”

Certain, when I was born, so long ago, Death drew the tap of life and let it flow; And ever since the tap has done its task, And now there’s little but an empty cask.

I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.

He is gentle that doeth gentle deeds.

The cat would eat fish but would not get her feet wet.

My house is small, but you are learned men And by your arguments can make a place Twenty foot broad as infinite as space.

But manly set the world on sixe and sevene; And, if thou die a martyr, go to heaven.

Filth and old age, I’m sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.

Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.

And she was fair as is the rose in May.

But Christ’s lore and his apostles twelve, He taught and first he followed it himself.

Habit maketh no monk, ne wearing of gilt spurs maketh no knight.

For time lost may not recovered be.

One cannot be avenged for every wrong; according to the occasion, everyone who knows how, must use temperance.

Look up on high, and thank the God of all.

The guilty think all talk is of themselves.

A yokel mind loves stories from of old, Being the kind it can repeat and hold.

Our two souls therefore which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.

Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.

And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

Every honest miller has a golden thumb.

The inflated imitations of gold and silver, which after the rapture are thrown into the fire, all is exhausted and dissipated by the debt. All scrips and bonds are wiped out. At the fourth pillar dedicated to Saturn, split by earthquake and flood: vexing everyone, an urn of gold is found and then restored.

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.

Born in poverty, he will take supreme power. He will bankrupt the country. Raising an army in the Milanese marches, he will drain Faenza and Florence of gold and people.

My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That’s heaven. That’s gold, and anything else is just a waste of time.