Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

O, had I but followed the arts!

I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

What can be happier than for a man, conscious of virtuous acts, and content with liberty, to despise all human affairs?