[Rhyme is] but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meter; ... Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rhyme, ... as have also long since our best English tragedies, as... trivial and of no true musical delight; which [truly] consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory.

Govern well thy appetite, lest Sin surprise thee, and her black attendant Death.

In contemplation of created things, by steps we may ascend to God.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint.

Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.