Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.

For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it comes to light, In every cranny but the right.

Oh, my friend, it's not what they take away from you that counts. It's what you do with what you have left.

Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.

Spare feast! a radish and an egg.

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd / Long since.