Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using
Man is a creature of a willful head, and hardly driven is, but eas'ly led
The wise are above books
Unless above himself he can / Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.
Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come; / Possess these shores with me! / The winds and seas are troublesome / And here we may be free.
The stars that have most glory have no rest.
By adversity are wrought the greatest works of admiration, and all the fair examples of renown, out of distress and misery are grown.
And for the few that only lend their ear, That few is all the world.
Sacred religion! Mother of Form and Fear!
This many-headed monster, Multitude.
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born; Relive my languish, and restore the light.
Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.
Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.
And who (in time) knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident May come refin'd with th' accents that are ours?
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.