Wealth increaseth, but a nameless something is ever wanting to our insufficient fortune.
And take back ill-polished stanzas to the anvil.
All else-valor, a good name, glory, everything in heaven and earth-is secondary to the charm of riches.
Twixt hope and fear, anxiety and anger.
Where there are many beauties in a poem I shall not cavil at a few faults proceeding either from negligence or from the imperfection of our nature.
Nothing is achieved without toil.