That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and that the honours due only to are paid to antiquity, is a complaint likely to be always continued by those who, being able to add nothing to truth, hope for eminence from the heresies of paradox; or those who, being forced by disappointment upon consolatory expedients, are willing to hope from posterity what the present age refuses, and flatter themselves that the regard which is yet denied by envy will be at last bestowed by time.

Love that is ignorant and hatred have almost the same ends.

God wisheth none should wreck on a strange shelf: To him man's dearer than to himself.

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

Your highest female grace is silence.

Nor use too swelling, or ill-sounded words . . . .

Minds that are great and free, should not on fortune pause: 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.