Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, ease after war, death after life does greatly please.

Woe never wants, where every cause is caught, and rash Occasion makes unquiet life.

Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust, that more to mighty hands, then rightfull cause doth trust.

The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring, His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded.

Don Chaucer. well of English undefyled On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.

Entire affection hateth nicer hands.