The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.

Tell troth and shame the devil.

He that would have his virtue published, is not the servant of virtue, but glory.

And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot.

That old bald cheater, Time.

Hell itself must yield to industry.

No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.