Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.

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!

Sure of their qualities and demanding praise, more go to ruined fortunes than are raised.

A field of glory is a field for all.

If I am right, Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O, teach my heart To find that better way!

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see

Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.