He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.

The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.

Him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, the Cherub Contemplation.

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.

Solitude is sometimes the best society.

I will not allow my daughters to learn foreign languages because one tongue is sufficient for a woman.

Lords are lordliest in their wine.