His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.
There is nothing serious in Mortality
The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!
How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.
The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself
Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow