Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a little feast.

What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?

Neither the praise nor the blame is our own.

Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.

Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.

Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.