And keeps the palace of the soul.

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.

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

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

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.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?