Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.