He Was Not Of An Age, But

The Voice So Sweet, The Words So Fair, As Some Soft Chime Had Stroked The Air; And Though The Sound Had Parted Thence, Still Left An Echo In The Sense.

Rich Apparel Has Strange Virtues; It Makes Him That Hath It Without Means Esteemed For An Excellent Wit; He That Enjoys It With Means Puts The World In Remembrance Of His Means.

A Good Man Should And Must Sit Rather Down With Loss Than Rise Unjust.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.

Mischiefs Feed / Like Beasts, Till They Be Fat, And Then They Bleed.