A poet is a painter in his way, he draws to the life, but in another kind; we draw the nobler part, the soul and the mind; the pictures of the pen shall outlast those of the pencil, and even worlds themselves.
Jealousy, the old worm that bites.
No friend to Love like a long voyage at sea.
Love's a thin Diet, nor will keep out Cold.
Love, like reputation, once fled, never returns more.
Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be Defence enough against Mortality