Nothing Is More Short-lived Than Pride.

True Gladness Doth Not Always Speak; Joy, Bred And Born But In The Tongue, Is Weak.

Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

Minds That Are Great And Free, Should Not On Fortune Pause: 'tis Crown Enough To Virtue Still, Her Own Applause.

Doing, A Filthy Pleasure Is, And Short; And Done, We Straight Repent Us Of The Sport: Let Us Not Rush Blindly On Unto It, Like Lustful Beasts, That Only Know To Do It: For Lust Will Languish, And That Heat Decay, But Thus, Thus, Keeping Endless Holy-.

Nor Use Too Swelling, Or Ill-sounded Words . . . .