Things are evermore sincere; / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
Humble we must be, if to heaven we go; High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head towards me, Guess I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.
Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.