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

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

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

If I am asked 'what is good?' my answer is that good is good, and that is the end of the matter.

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

Honesty needs no pains to set itself off.

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?