To a Mistress Dying Lover. YOUR beauty, ripe and calm and fresh As eastern summers are, Must now, forsaking time and flesh, Add light to some small star. Philosopher. Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay'd, Their light by hers relief might find; But Death will lead her to a shade Where Love is cold and Beauty blind. Lover. Lovers, whose priests all poets are, Think every mistress, when she dies, Is changed at least into a star: And who dares doubt the poet wise? Philosopher. But ask not bodies doom'd to die To what abode they go; Since Knowledge is but Sorrow's spy, It is not safe to know.

The assembled souls of all that men held wise.

Since knowledge is but sorrow's spy, It is not safe to know.

Honor is the moral conscience of the great.

It is the wit and policy of sin to hate those we have abused.

Fame, like the river, is narrowest where it is bred, and broadest afar off.

What one cannot, another can.