Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
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.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.