A surfeit of the sweetest things the deepest loathing of the stomach brings

They are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

All goodnessIs poison to thy stomach.

Death lies on her like an untimely frostUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.