And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

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

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

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

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!