Govern well thy appetite, lest Sin surprise thee, and her black attendant Death.
Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.
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
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
It is for homely features to keep home,- They had their name thence; coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?