Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
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.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
And keeps the palace of the soul.