Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
Beauty lives with kindness.
We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.