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

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.

Blest is that government where no art thrives.

Shape your coat according to your cloth.

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

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

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

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

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.