Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
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.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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.