And for the authentical truth of either person or actions, who (worth the respecting) will expect it in a poem, whose subject is not truth, but things like truth? Poor envious souls they are that cavil at truth's want in these natural fictions; material instruction, elegant and sententious excitation to virtue, and deflection from her contrary, being the soul, limbs, and limits of an authentical tragedy.

I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.

Perfect happiness, by princes sought, Is not with birth born, nor exchequers bought.

They're only truly great who are truly good.

Who hath no faith to man, to God hath none.

Let pride go afore, shame will follow after.

He is at no end of his actions blestWhose ends will make him greatest, and not best.