Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?

All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.

A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury, for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other by forgiving it.

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!

So perish all who do the like again.

Time conquers all, and we must time obey.

Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.