Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king
Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!
Shape your coat according to your cloth.
From winter, plague and pestilence, good lord, deliver us!
Poetry is the honey of all flowers, the quintessence of all sciences, the marrow of wit, and the very phrase of angels.
The Sun shineth as well on the good as the bad: God from on high beholdeth all the workers of iniquity, as well as the upright of heart.