I fled, and cry'd out, Death; Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.

None But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good, is not delicious To a well-govern'd and wise appetite.

Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.

This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!

Death ready stands to interpose his dart.

Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear