The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.
Tis the mind that makes the body rich.
Every great drama has its foreshadow.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.
Being of no power to make his wishes good: His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes For every word.
Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.