Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing.

And who in time knows whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gain of our best glories shall be sent, 't unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident may come refined with the accents that are ours?

Pow'r above pow'rs! O heavenly eloquence! That with the strong rein of commanding words, Dost manage, guide, and master th' eminence Of men's affections, more than all their swords!

Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

Custom, that is before all law Nature, that is above all art.

The absent danger greater still appears less fears he who is near the thing he fears.

Man is a Creature of a wilful Head, And hardly driven is, but eas'ly led.

When better cherries are not to be had, We needs must take the seeming best of bad.

Th aspirer, once attaind unto the top, Cuts off those means by which himself got up.

Flattery, the dangerous nurse of vice.

Thus doth the ever-changing course of things Run a perpetual circle, ever turning And that same day, that highest glory brings, Brings us unto the point of back-returning.

Striving to tell his woes, words would not come For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.