All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.

What mighty contests rise from trivial things.

Virtue alone is happiness below.

'Tis all in vain to keep a constant pother About one vice and fall into another.

Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.