Poetry is the honey of all flowers, the quintessence of all sciences, the marrow of wit, and the very phrase of angels.

Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore: So fair a summer look for never more. All good things vanish, less than in a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

From winter, plague and pestilence, good lord, deliver us!

Shape your coat according to your cloth.

Our learning ought to be our lives' amendment, and the fruits of our private study ought to appear in our public behavior.

Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour Brightness falls from the air Queens have died young and fair Dust hath closed Helen's eye.

Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king

Blest is that government where no art thrives.