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!

We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow. Our wiser sons, no doubt will think us so.

There should be, methinks, as little merit in loving a woman for her beauty as in loving a man for his prosperity; both being equally subject to change.

For thee I dim these eye and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.

Party-spirit at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.

As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.