Tis the common disease of all your musicians that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin or end.

Passions are spiritual rebels and raise sedition against the understanding.

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul; lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.

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

If you succeed not, cast not away the quills yet, nor scratch the wainscot, beat not the poor desk, but bring all to the forge and file again; turn it new.

Poets are far rarer birds than kings.

Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.