Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
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.
With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.