All, with one consent, praise newborn gawds (sic), though they are made and molded of things past

They say, best men are molded out of faults; And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent

Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear