Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

The vanity of human life is like a river, constantly passing away, and yet constantly coming on.

To observations which ourselves we make, we grow more partial for th' observer's sake.

A perfect woman's but a softer man.