Each must in virtue strive for to excel; That man lives twice that lives the first life well.

Things are evermore sincere; / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.

The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.

Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg.

Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.

None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.