this hapless maid,
In sweeter notes than Thracian Orpheus ever played.

Nor shall my numbers with my life expire,
Or this world's light confine the boundless song:
To thee, bright maid, in death I'll touch the lyre,
And to my soul the theme shall still belong.
When, freed from clay, the flitting ghosts among,
My spirit glides the Stygian shores around,
Though the cold hand of death has sealed my tongue,
Thy praise the infernal caverns shall rebound,
And Lethe's sluggish waves move slower to the sound.

Better kill me outright than break my back with other men's
burdens.

Sleep is the best cure for waking troubles.

Devils, play or not play, win or not win, can never be
content.

History that is good, faithful, and true, will survive for
ages; but should it have none of these qualities, its
passage will be short between the cradle and the grave.

As for dying for love, it is all a jest; your lovers,
indeed, may easily say they are dying, but that they will
actually give up the ghost, believe it--Judas.

"Madam," said he, "your ladyship should know that the chief cause of
this good damsel's suffering is idleness, the remedy whereof is honest
and constant employment. Lace, she tells me, is much worn in purgatory,
and since she cannot but know how to make it, let her stick to that;
for, while her fingers are assiduously employed with her bobbins, the
images that now haunt her imagination will keep aloof, and leave her
mind tranquil and happy. This, madam, is my opinion and advice."

"And mine, too," added Sancho, "for I never in my life heard of a
lacemaker that died for love; for your damsels that bestir themselves at
some honest labor think more of their work than of their sweethearts. I
know it by myself; when I am digging, I never think of my Teresa,
though, God bless her! I love her more than my very eyelids."

Railing among lovers is the next neighbor to forgiveness.

The ass will carry the load, but not a double load.

When money's paid before it's due,
A broken limb will straight ensue.

Delay breeds danger.

Pray to God devoutly,
And hammer away stoutly.

A sparrow in the hand is worth an eagle on the wing.

"No more proverbs, for God's sake," quoth Don Quixote, "for, methinks,
Sancho, thou art losing ground, and returning to _sicut erat_. Speak
plainly, as I have often told thee, and thou wilt find it worth a loaf
per cent to