When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.