Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.

Tis the mind that makes the body rich.

That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

What the great ones do, the less will prattle of

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, gives in your weakness strength unto your foe.