...Vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.

The nature of bad news affects the teller.

Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.