Faith goes out through the window when beauty comes in at the door.

'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.

But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.

The lot of critics is to be remembered by what they failed to understand.

Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies, and love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.

Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.

Can't I another's face commend, Or to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead louers, As if her merit lessen'd yours?