Poetry is the honey of all flowers, the quintessence of all sciences, the marrow of wit, and the very phrase of angels.

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.

New herrings, new!' we must cry, every time we make ourselves public, or else we shall be christened with a hundred new titles of idiotism.

Shape your coat according to your cloth.

Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!

Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore: So fair a summer look for never more. All good things vanish, less than in a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year; The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.