A crown Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns, Bring dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights To him who wears the regal diadem
No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
God has set labor and rest, as day and night to men successive.
The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.