Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.