[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.

License they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good.

For what is glory but the blaze of fame?

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

His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.

All seemed well pleased, all seemed, but were not all.

A man may be ungrateful, but the human race is not so.