The labor we delight in physics [cures] pain.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
O hell! to choose love with another's eye.
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.
Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.