What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.
For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.
Virtue must shape itself in deed.