Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.

Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.

Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate.

We are never like angels till our passion dies.

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold; His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore.

But whither am I strayed? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built; Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt Of Eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.