Nor ought a genius less than his that writ attempt translation.

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.

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

Sure there are poets which did never dream Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose Those made not poets, but the poets those.

Uncertain ways unsafest are, and doubt a greater mischief than despair.

We are never like angels till our passion dies.

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