A High Hope For A Low Heaven:

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.

He's Loved Of The Distracted Multitude, Who Like Not In Their Judgement, But Their Eyes.

Virtue Is Bold, And Goodness Never Fearful.

From Women's Eyes This Doctrine I Derive: They Sparkle Still The Right Promethean Fire; They Are The Books, The Arts, The Academes, That Show, Contain And Nourish All The World.

Ring The Alarum-bell! Blow, Wind! Come, Wrack! At Least We'll Die With Harness On Our Back.